iipiiil 

CA5TLE-JR 


THE   GREEN   VASE 


OE  CALIF.-  IIBRAHYfT  IDS  AffGELE 


THE  GREEN  VASE 


By 
WILLIAM    R.  CASTLE,  JR. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   AND   COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


Published  March,  IQIS 


TO 


21 28705 


THE   GREEN   VASE 


BOOK  I 
HELEN 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  train  came  to  a  stop  with  a  jerk  that  almost 
threw  the  passengers  to  the  floor. 

"  Confound  that  engineer,"  Henry  Murphy  said. 
"  He's  nearly  knocked  us  down  at  every  station  since 
we  left  New  York,  and  I  guess  this  time  he  just 
remembered  the  last  minute  that  the  Boston  station 
wasn't  located  on  State  Street.  Come  on,  Helen," 
and  then,  to  a  group  of  fellow-passengers,  "  Good-bye 
and  good  luck  to  you." 

He  took  his  wife's  arm  and  pushed  his  way  across 
the  crowded  platform  to  a  cab.  While  he  went  with 
the  driver  to  find  their  trunk  she  leaned  back  some- 
what dispiritedly  against  the  worn  leather  cushions 
of  the  carriage.  The  day  was  blustering  and  dismal. 
Their  honeymoon  was  over.  During  the  first  week, 
at  Niagara,  she  had  found  herself  pitifully  unable 
to  share  Henry's  enthusiasm  in  the  wonder  of  the 
place,  and  at  the  same  time  had  been  thrilled  with 
the  realisation  that  he  was  somehow,  in  his  splendid 
young  strength,  a  part  of  it  all.  Then  had  followed 
a  fortnight  of  ecstatic,  if  perhaps  a  little  wistful  joy 
in  New  York.  At  the  Waldorf,  at  Delmonico's,  she 

3 


had  brushed  against  men  and  women  of  the  world. 
And  yet  she  had  suffered.  To  be  among  them,  un- 
noticed, was  not  to  be  of  them.  To  touch  them  in 
passing  was  not  like  speaking  with  them,  eating  with 
them;  and  yet,  an  outsider,  she  had  felt  kinship 
with  them.  Henry  had  been  interested  in  them  only 
as  he  was  interested  in  a  play  in  which  he  had  no 
wish  to  take  a  part.  Then,  more  acutely,  as  vaguely 
before  they  were  married,  she  had  wished  he  was 
different,  not  in  any  specific  detail  perhaps,  but  that 
he  might  be  more  obviously  a  gentleman — like  the 
men  in  evening  clothes  who  seemed  to  have  so  much 
to  say.  She  had  not  phrased  it  so  clearly  as 
yet. 

Now  they  had  come  home.  Where  they  were  to 
live  she  had  no  idea.  Henry  had  wanted  to  surprise 
her — as  though  she  were  a  child — and  she  had  been 
unwilling  to  spoil  the  eager  joy  of  his  anticipation  and 
had  refrained  from  questions.  After  all,  he  would 
only  have  rented  and  they  could  decide  during  the  com- 
ing year  where  to  live.  She  wanted  to  be  among  the 
people  whom  her  father  had  known  and  loved  and 
whom  her  mother,  in  their  poverty,  had  lost  sight 
of  after  his  death.  Beacon  Street  and  Common- 
wealth Avenue  were  beyond  their  means,  but  people 
were  moving  out.  The  Fenway  and  the  Bay  State 


HELEN  5 

Road  were  building  up,  and  she  believed  it  would  be 
an  easy  matter  to  persuade  Henry  to  settle  there 
since  his  sense  for  financial  opportunity  was  as  keen 
as  hers  for  social.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  a 
"  climber."  She  wanted  friends,  as  she  had  wanted 
them  all  her  life — people  in  whose  interests  she  could 
really  share. 

Henry  spoke  to  the  coachman,  evidently  naming 
a  familiar  street,  and  then  jumped  into  the  carriage 
and  fell,  rather  than  sat,  beside  her.  He  never  did 
things  calmly.  He  was  often  boisterous  in  the  vital- 
ity of  his  youth,  and  so,  almost  roughly,  yet  with 
the  tenderness  that  came  of  great  love,  he  threw 
his  arm  over  her  shoulder  and  drew  her  close. 
"Now,  dearest,"  he  said,  "home!  What  a  home 
it  will  be!  Just  us  two!  A  thousand  times  better 
than  wedding  tours.  No  swells  to  look  at  our  clothes 
and  wonder  who  the  country  folks  are.  Just  us  two. 
Aren't  you  glad,  Helen?  " 

1  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  yes,  dear,"  and  nestled 
closer.  At  that  moment,  as  always  when  she  was 
alone  with  him,  she  shared  fully  his  feelings,  let  her 
love  shine  clear,  meeting  his  as  frankly  and  unre- 
servedly as  their  eyes  met.  She  delighted  in  his 
strength,  his  touch,  his  whole-hearted,  protecting  love. 
She  was  willing  to  let  herself  sink  contentedly  into 


6  THE   GREEN   VASE 

its  limitless  shelter  and  to  rest,  to  be  unreservedly 
happy  in  his  care,  as  he  was  in  the  right  to  care. 

She  had  almost  forgotten  that  they  were  moving, 
going  home,  until  she  looked  out  and  saw  unfamiliar 
streets.  She  watched  vaguely  a  moment,  then 
acutely.  Their  carriage  was  lumbering  along  toward 
the  South  Boston  bridge.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
cry  out.  Surely  he  had  not  taken  a  house  there — 
or  perhaps  they  were  going  to  Roxbury.  She  quieted 
at  that.  Roxbury  was  not  the  Back  Bay,  but  good 
families  still  lived  there.  It  would  be  only  temporary, 
and  at  any  rate  she  must  not  disappoint  her  hus- 
band, must  not  let  him  see  anything  but  the  happi- 
ness he  so  confidently  expected.  Then  they  turned 
to  the  left,  over  the  bridge.  "Where?"  she  cried 
involuntarily,  "not  South  Boston?" 

Henry  looked  at  her,  surprised.  "  Yes,  dear,  South 
Boston.  Why  not  ?  We're  not  social  swells  and 
nothing  is  prettier.  You  just  wait." 

"  I  have  never  been  there,"  she  murmured,  but 
she  kept  her  face  away  from  him,  looking  unseeingly 
over  the  forests  of  shipping.  South  Boston.  People 
had  silver  weddings  there,  and  sometimes  the  engage- 
ment was  announced  in  the  papers  of  a  clerk  living  in 
Somerville  or  Charlestown  to  Miss  Murphy  of  South 
Boston.  Murphy — that  was  her  name  now,  and  per- 


HELEN  7 

haps  she  belonged  there.  But  she  did  not — she  was 
sure  of  that — not  for  long  at  any  rate.  The  name, 
Murphy,  always  troubled  her  except  when  she  was 
with  Henry,  and  then,  in  her  admiration  for  him,  she 
forgot  about  it.  Perhaps  there  were  nice  people  in 
South  Boston,  but  she  doubted  it  because  they  were 
never  mentioned  in  the  society  columns,  the  real  so- 
ciety columns  where  people  did  not  pay  and  which 
were  not  called  society  to  please  the  politicians  whose 
names  and  speeches  were  reported.  It  was  among 
the  political  items  that  their  home-coming  would  be 
reported.  "  Henry  Murphy,  the  rising  young  pol- 
itician, has  just  returned  from  Niagara  and  New 
York  with  his  bride,  who  was  a  Miss  Helen  Smith 
of  Cambridge.  The  young  people  have  taken  a  house 

in Street,  South  Boston,  where  they  will  be 

pleased  to  see  their  friends."  She  could  not  imagine 
the  Elliotts  and  the  Blands  and  the  Sawyers  reading 
that  notice — and  the  combination  of  Murphy  and 
South  Boston  made  her  almost  glad. 

The  carriage  was  bumping  along  now  over  ill- 
paved  slum  streets  where  babies  and  mangy  dogs 
swarmed  in  the  gutters,  and  where  rumpled  sheets 
and  turkey-red  tableclothes  streamed  from  the  win- 
dows. Slatternly  women  with  market  baskets  gos- 
siped on  the  corners.  Helen  almost  envied  them  be- 


8  THE   GREEN   VASE 

cause  she  was  sure  they  never  thought  beyond  th< 
day.  Happiness  there  must  be  on  the  top  rung  o: 
the  social  ladder.  A  kind  of  sordid  acceptance  then 
must  be  on  the  lowest  rung,  too,  where  one  mus 
recognise  the  impossibility  of  the  climb  and  when 
envy  would  only  be  for  the  money  that  Mrs.  De 
lancy's  diamond  tiara  would  bring,  not  for  contac 
with  the  lazy  men  and  women  who  saw  it  glitter  an< 
came  to  pass  idle,  precious  words  with  its  owner 
And  all  the  time  Henry  had  been  talking,  loving  her 
taking  her  home,  masculinely  unconscious  that  shi 
was  less  radiant  under  the  gloomy  skies  than  he 
For  him  the  time  had  not  yet  arrived,  if  it  ever  would 
when  he  could  distinguish  between  a  brave  smile  anc 
a  joyous  one.  She  did  not  let  him  see  her  eyes. 

"  It's  lucky  for  us,"  he  was  saying  as  they  passec 
into  tree-lined  streets  where  the  houses  would  hav< 
been  suggestive  of  Beacon  Hill  had  it  not  been  foi 
the  little  ugly  signs  of  "  Front  Room  To  Let "  ir 
the  windows,  "  that  the  swells  missed  seeing  wha 
a  really  good  thing  South  Boston  was.  We  couk 
never  have  come  here  if  folks  like  that  had  bough 
up  the  land.  Are  you  tired  out,  love?  We  are  al 
most  home."  She  had  turned  to  him,  and  he  ha( 
caught  a  suggestion  of  the  suffering  in  her  eyes,  onb 
to  interpret  it  wrongly.  "  Here  we  are  now." 


HELEN  9 

The  carriage  turned  up  a  sharp,  short  hill  and 
came  to  a  stop  at  one  side  of  a  shaded  but  somewhat 
unkempt  park  before  the  door  of  an  old-fashioned, 
red  house  with  a  high  stoop  and  ornate  iron  railing. 
In  front  was  a  little  grass-plot  where  a  few  purple 
crocuses  showed  their  faces.  About  the  whole  square  ' 
was  an  air  of  respectability,  almost  of  gentility,  Helen 
thought,  as  she  glanced  over  it,  suddenly  reassured. 
And  then,  in  the  window  of  the  next  house,  her  eye 
caught  a  sign,  "  Large  Front  Room  To  Let." 

Henry  led  her  up  the  steps  and  hand  in  hand  they 
passed  into  the  hall.  He  was  too  deeply  moved  to 
speak,  and  Helen,  when  she  saw  his  face,  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck.  "  Our  house,"  she  whispered. 
"  Dearest,  how  happy  we  shall  be." 

The  parlour  had  red  walls,  red  of  an  almost  bloody 
shade,  but  touched  with  magenta  where  shadows  fell 
across  it.  The  woodwork,  heavy  all  of  it,  but  over- 
shadowed by  the  huge  mantelpiece  that  tried  inef- 
fectually to  hide  behind  an  intricate  network  of  jig- 
saw tracery,  was  of  lifeless  black  walnut.  On  the 
centre  of  the  mantel,  crushing  all  hope  of  better 
things,  was  a  fat  green  vase,  up  which  sprawled  red 
and  yellow  roses,  all  in  high  relief,  all  shining  as 
though  varnished.  It  was  the  wedding  present  from 
Henry's  Uncle  John,  and  Helen  had  cried  when  it 


io  THE    GREEN   VASE 

came.  Uncle  John  was  rich  and  she  had  hoped  that 
his  riches  might  be  associated  with  good  taste.  The 
furniture  suited  the  room,  as  she  realised  sadly.  It, 
too,  was  of  black  walnut,  upholstered  in  bright  green 
corduroy,  and  it  had  obviously  been  newly  revar- 
nished.  She  sat  down  on  the  hard  tufted  sofa  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  sofa  was  un- 
yielding and  she  moved  to  a  chair.  It  was  stiff  and 
uncomfortable  but  from  it  she  could  not  see  the 
green  vase.  She  was  in  the  grip  of  despair  but  knew 
she  could  hide  her  feelings  from  her  husband  after 
he  came  from  superintending  the  trunks.  She  only 
hoped  the  stairs  were  long,  so  that  he  could  not  finish 
quickly.  There  were  coarse  lace  curtains  at  the  win- 
dows, a  blue  white  in  colour.  She  had  not  noticed 
them  before.  They  looked  like  the  curtains  one 
bought  in  shops  where  furniture  is  sold  on  the  instal- 
ment plan.  They  were  just  the  hue  of  a  dead  body. 
She  thought  of  tearing  them  down,  and  then  she 
heard  the  front  door  slam.  Henry  was  coming. 

She  stood  up  to  meet  him,  afraid  of  herself,  afraid 
of  her  surroundings,  but  with  the  same  brave  smile 
on  her  face  that  he  so  eagerly  mistook  for  joy. 
"  Well,"  he  cried,  "  pretty  flossy  parlour  for  begin- 
ners, ain't  it?  "  She  looked  at  him  with  staring  eyes, 
the  smile  still  hovering  on  her  lips.  Somehow  she 


HELEN  ii 

had  expected  his  personality  to  dominate  the  room, 
to  push  back  the  ugliness,  to  sweep  her  up  into  his 
own  optimism.  And  he  did  dominate,  become  the 
moving  force  of  all  the  surroundings,  but  not,  as  she 
hoped,  by  crushing  them  back  on  themselves.  Rather 
he  seemed  at  the  moment  to  assimilate  them  to  him- 
self, to  be  himself  the  ultimate  test  of  vulgarity,  finer 
only  because  stronger,  and  through  his  strength  less 
capable  of  change.  Suddenly  she  sank  down  on  the 
inhospitable  sofa  and  shook  with  great  wrenching 
sobs.  She  cried  because  at  the  moment  her  dreams 
were  shattered;  because  she  recognised  the  impossi- 
bility of  moulding  her  husband  into  a  type  different 
from  that  of  his  birthright;  and  because,  contradict- 
ing as  he  did  all  her  masculine  ideals  except  that  of 
power,  she  yet  loved  him. 

He  was  on  his  knees  beside  her,  his  arms  around 
her,  talking  to  her  as  he  might  have  to  a  child  with 
a  broken  toy,  very  tenderly,  with  a  gentleness  she  had 
hardly  believed  was  in  him.  "  Poor  little  girl.  Poor 
child — tired  out  and  I  never  knew  it.  And  then,  after 
all  the  excitement  of  the  trip,  coming  to  a  new  and 
strange  home.  But  you'll  feel  better  soon.  And  I 
have  a  surprise  for  you — a  surprise  that'll  make  you 
very  happy,  a  new  wedding  present." 

"  Not  another  green  vase !  "  she  cried,  straighten- 


12  THE   GREEN   VASE 

ing  suddenly  and  drawing  away  from  him.     "  I — I 
couldn't  stand  that." 

He  laughed  happily,  holding  both  her  hands. 
"  No,  not  another  green  vase ;  I'd  forgotten  you 
didn't  like  that.  You'll  learn  to,  I  guess.  A  much 
bigger,  costlier  present  than  that.  Uncle  John  did 
help  with  it,  though,  in  a  sort  of  way.  See,  here's 
his  letter,"  he  added,  producing  the  document  from 
his  pocket.  "  It's  what  I  call  a  good  letter.  Read 
it."  He  thrust  it  into  her  hand,  and  sitting  on  the 
sofa  beside  her  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"  DEAR  NEPHEW  HENRY,"  it  began.  "  I  am  glad 
you  took  the  straight  road  to  your  uncle.  Who 
should  you  go  to  quicker?  I  have  been  thinking  over 
your  plan  and  have  decided  to  help  you.  But  along 
with  the  help  here  goes  a  bit  of  advice  from  an  old 
man  who  has  been  through  life,  to  a  young  one  just 
beginning.  From  what  you  say  I  opine  that  you  are 
marrying  a  sensible  young  woman  like  your  Aunt 
Mary  was  when  she  and  I  made  up  together.  Miss 
Helen  has  earned  her  living  so  she  will  know  how 
to  be  economical  and  keep  your  house  shipshape.  She 
will  have  no  social  bee  in  her  bonnet,  thank  God. 
The  germ  of  that  kind  of  ambition  in  a  woman  is  the 
worst  kind  of  sickness  to  fight.  It  is  sometimes  con- 
tagious and  then  you  might  as  well  call  in  the  financial 
undertaker.  But  I  guess  you  are  safe  and  I  would 
say  Miss  Helen  was  if  I  did  not  know  the  suscepti- 


HELEN  13 

bility  of  womankind.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  being 
too  careful  in  these  matters.  Therefore,  which  is 
the  reason  for  all  this,  buy  a  house  where  there  will 
be  as  few  chances  of  contagion  as  possible.  If  you 
buy  in  the  city  get  away  from  what  the  papers  call 
the  tide  of  fashion.  Strike  into  a  back  water  if  you 
can,  some  place  that's  just  got  left  out.  You  never 
can  tell  what  will  happen  in  a  new  place  if  the  dam 
breaks,  because  any  tide  is  a  curious  thing  and  reaches 
the  most  unlikely  places.  But  a  back  water  has  been 
tried  already  and  things  are  apt  to  keep  on  pretty 
steady  like.  The  hill  in  South  Boston  is  one  of  such 
and  so  are  the  streets  north  of  Franklin  Square.  In 
both  you  can  buy  cheap  and  good,  reaping  the  fruits, 
so  to  speak,  of  the  fashion  hunters  that  made  a  mis- 
take. But  I  put  South  Boston  first  because  it's  far- 
ther from  the  danger  line  and  because  the  park  will 
be  a  fine  place  for  the  children  to  play.  Of  course 
there  is  not  much  chance  of  land  skyrocketing  there, 
but  you  will  be  buying  a  home,  not  a  wildcat  specula- 
tion scheme.  That  is  not  what  I  am  lending  money 
on,  but  on  a  permanent  investment,  as  permanent  as 
marriage  itself.  I  am  lending  you  money  to  build  up 
a  God-fearing,  righteous,  fruitful  home,  and  after  all 
that's  the  only  thing  worth  while  in  the  long  journey 
of  this  life.  I  want  you  and  Helen  to  start  right 
and  keep  right,  and  nothing  is  more  likely  to  do  it 
than  a  bit  of  land  and  a  tidy  home  that  is  your  own. 
Therefore  when  you  need  the  money  your  old  Uncle 
will  hold  the  mortgage,  believing  it  will  be  the  sound- 


i4  THE   GREEN   VASE 

est  investment  of  his  life.  God  bless  you  both,  my 
boy.  You're  just  the  sort  I  would  have  liked  my 
son  to  be  if  he  had  ever  been  more  than  a  dream- 
child,  and  it's  up  to  you  to  keep  on  living  up  to  my 
ideal  of  what  he  would  have  been. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  JOHN  MURPHY." 

Helen  read  the  letter  through,  dry-eyed  and  emo- 
tionless. "  Have  you  bought  the  house?  "  she  asked 
finally,  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  answered.  "  That  was  the  sur- 
prise. Isn't  Uncle  John  a  wonder.  The  deed's  in 
your  name.  How  does  it  feel  to  be  a  property  owner? 
Better  than  writing  letters  in  Stuyvesant  and  Bond's 
office,  isn't  it?" 

"  Henry,"  she  said  quickly,  "  you're  too  good  to 
me.  I'm  not  worth  it.  Shall  we  go  upstairs  now?  " 

He  looked  vaguely  disappointed  as  he  followed  her, 
but  could  not  have  told  why.  He  was  far  from 
grasping  even  a  suggestion  of  the  undercurrent  of 
her  thought,  far  from  seeing  that  the  fulfilment  of  his 
brightest  dreams  was  the  shattering  of  hers. 


CHAPTER   II 

A  WEEK  later  Helen  sat  before  her  mirror  doing  her 
hair.  She  was  proud  of  the  wonderful  masses  of  it, 
deep,  rich  chestnut  in  colour,  and  as  she  drew  it  back 
not  too  tightly,  coiling  it  into  a  great  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  neck,  she  watched  the  ripples  of  light  that 
played  along  it.  The  sun  was  shining  across  her 
window,  and  through  a  golden  haze  she  could  look 
out  over  the  shallow  harbour  and  the  marshes  to  the 
Dorchester  hills,  already  stained  with  the  warm,  soft, 
green  of  spring.  The  call  of  a  fishmonger,  made 
musical  by  distance,  the  notes  of  birds  in  the  trees, 
the  smell,  languorous  yet  deeply  irritating,  of  the 
earth  waking  to  new  life  in  the  hot  spring  sunshine — 
all  these  stirred  her  more  profoundly  than  she  knew, 
disintegrating  the  despairing  calm  that  for  seven  days 
had  only  given  way  before  tempests  of  self-accusing 
love  for  her  husband.  So,  as  she  leaned  forward 
watching  herself  in  the  glass,  her  bare  arms  resting 
on  the  cool  marble  top  of  her  dressing  table,  she  felt 
the  pain  of  her  defeat  acutely  resurgent.  Bitterly  she 
repeated  the  hard,  common-sense  phrases  of  Uncle 
John's  letter — the  house  that  was  his  soundest  invest- 

15 


16  THE   GREEN   VASE 

ment  because  they  would  live  in  it,  always;  the  park 
where  the  children  could  play — dirty,  South  Boston 
children  she  saw  them,  their  father's  commonness 
without  his  redeeming  strength;  she  saw  them  in 
school,  in  college,  always  dragging  on  a  noisy,  colour- 
less existence;  saw  them  married,  the  girl  perhaps  to 
that  vulgar  boy  next  door  who  threw  spitballs  and 
whose  mother  took  boarders  at  sixty  cents  a  day.  In 
anticipation,  for  them,  she  rebelled.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  have  children,  and  at  that  her  pity  re- 
verted to  herself.  Did  not  the  woman  looking  back 
at  her  from  the  mirror  deserve  a  better  fate  than 
drowning  in  the  slough  of  South  Boston  respectabil- 
ity? She  was  not  a  vain  woman,  but  she  knew  the 
value  of  her  face  and  figure.  There  was  nothing 
plebeian  in  the  soft  oval  of  the  face,  in  the  deep 
brown  eyes,  the  firm  nose  and  chin,  the  small  mouth 
that  drooped  pathetically  at  the  corners.  Why  should 
there  be?  Her  poverty  had  not  affected  her  inher- 
itance of  birth.  She  held  up  her  arms  and  let  the 
loose  sleeves  of  her  dressing  sacque  fall  to  the  shoul- 
ders. There  was  strength  as  well  as  beauty  in  the 
pliant  lines  of  her  figure.  She  knew  that  her  body 
was  more  than  Henry  had  said — "  little,  and  warm, 
and  soft  to  cuddle."  She  thought  of  it  then  frankly, 
as  a  social  asset  more  potent  than  jewels  and  bro- 


HELEN  17 

cades,  and  yet  she  longed  for  the  jewels  and  brocades 
to  hang  upon  it,  longed  for  them  with  much  the  same 
feeling  that  a  priest  has  for  the  diamonds  with  which 
he  embroiders  the  robe  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  The 
precious  stones  do  not  enhance  the  value  of  the  object 
of  worship.  They  seem  merely,  through  the  senses,  to 
give  a  first  impulse  to  the  worshippers.  Henry  loved 
to  have  her  well  dressed — "  as  well  as  you  can,  my 
dear,  without  being  etxravagant.  I  want  my  wife  to 
look  well  so  people  can't  say  I'm  stingy,  but  it  would 
be  the  ruin  of  my  career  to  have  them  think  we  were 
trying  to  put  ourselves  over  them."  Was  she,  then, 
to  be  merely  an  aid  to  his  career,  to  spend  her  life 
being  polite  to  the  vulgar  wives  of  vulgar  constitu- 
ents? Perhaps  that  was  a  wife's  duty,  but  she  had 
married,  partly  at  least,  to  escape  the  grind  of  duty, 
but  most  of  all,  she  knew  even  in  her  despair,  be- 
cause she  loved  Henry  Murphy.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  whisperings  and  the  pervasive  scent  of  a  warm 
spring  day  to  impel  her  back  to  the  cold  fact  of  duty. 
She  stepped  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out 
as  her  husband  so  often  did,  but  unlike  him,  she  got 
no  pleasure  from  the  commercial  aspect  of  the  scene. 
When  he  exclaimed  at  the  lovely  tints  of  the  water 
as  a  cloud  let  fall  its  long,  quivering  shadow,  or 
pointed  out  the  yellow  in  the  budding  woods  of  the 


i8  THE.  GREEN   VASE 

Dorchester  hills,  she  was  sorry,  as  he  was  glad,  that 
the  water  was  stained  with  coal  dust,  and  that  under 
the  trees  were  the  squalid  huts  of  hundreds  of  la- 
bourers. So  to-day  she  was  only  conscious  of  the 
harmony  of  colour,  restful  after  the  garish  crudity 
of  her  house.  She  was  seeking  to  order  her  mind, 
to  draw  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  dissatisfaction  a 
thread  of  active  purpose.  She  was  not  of  the  stuff 
which  yields  weakly  to  environment,  that  inertly  al- 
lows itself  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel  of  chance.  Her 
ambition  was  clear — social  recognition  by  the  men 
and  the  wives  of  the  men  whom  she  had  seen  daily 
pass  through  the  office  of  Stuyvesant  and  Bond  and 
who  had  in  turn  seen  her,  but  not  as  a  lady,  merely 
as  an  astonishingly  pretty  secretary  who  would  not 
accept  theatre  invitations.  It  had  been  ambition  and 
modesty  that  had  made  her  refuse.  She  knew  that 
if  she  had  wanted  the  jewels  and  fine  raiment  she 
could  have  had  them,  but  she  wanted  them  as  symbols, 
not  for  themselves.  In  He.nry  she  had  seen  a  young 
man,  already  well  off,  prospering  in  business ;  she  had 
heard  him  spoken  of  as  a  coming  financier,  and — she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him.  There  was  no  doubt 
of  that.  She  loved  him  first,  perhaps,  for  what  he 
might  become,  then  with  proud  submission  to  his 
splendid  strength.  Of  the  nature  of  that  strength 


HELEN  19 

her  intuition  had  been  at  fault.  She  had  conceived 
it  to  be  the  power  that  conquers  and  then  seeks  new 
conquests.  She  had  found  it  the  power  that  holds, 
that  fastens  its  roots  firmly  in  its  native  soil.  In  im- 
agination she  had  harnessed  her  ambition  to  Henry's 
strength,  and  in  reality  she  found  them  at  odds.  The 
question  defined  itself  quite  clearly.  She  must  match 
her  wit  against  his  stolidity.  Ultimate  success  would 
come  very  slowly  and  the  waiting  would  be  tedious. 
She  must  treasure  every  chance  phrase,  every  act, 
every  rebuff,  until  at  last  she  should  reach  the  sensitive 
pride,  the  craving  for  approbation  that  somewhere 
underlies  the  shell  of  every  man.  She  must  not  let 
him  suspect  her  ambition.  He  would  think  it  the 
"  desire,"  as  Uncle  John  called  it.  To  her  it  was  a 
craving  for  the  understanding  of  those  who  thought 
as  she  instinctively  thought.  She  must  foster  in 
Henry's  mind  the  belief  that  social  recognition  was 
only  the  natural  consequence  of  success.  In  her  hus- 
band's absence  she  felt  herself  able  to  accomplish 
anything. 

She  fastened  her  dress  and  pinned  a  white  bow  at 
her  neck,  looked  at  herself  once  more  in  the  glass, 
touched  her  hair,  and  then  wondered  whether  she  had 
ordered  supper.  She  heard  the  door  open  and  turned 
quickly. 


20  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  Mrs.  Jennings  from  across  the  park  to  call, 
ma'am,"  said  the  maid.  She  had  unkempt  hair,  wore 
a  black  skirt,  much  spotted,  and  a  soiled  blue  waist. 

"  Very  well,  Rose,"  she  answered,  "  tell  her  I 
shall  be  down  directly.  And,  Rose,  next  time,  please, 
knock  before  you  open  a  door." 

She  smiled  rather  grimly  as  the  door  slammed.  "  I 
wonder  whether  it  is  necessary  to  have  maids  who  are 
dirty  and  impudent."  Then  she  followed.  The  hall 
was  always  close  because  the  gas  had  to  be  kept 
burning.  The  red  and  blue  stained  glass  panel  in 
the  front  door  admitted  little  or  no  light  except  in 
the  late  afternoon,  when  the  sun  shone  through  it 
fantastically. 

In  the  parlour  Mrs.  Jennings  sat  stiffly  on  one  of 
the  green  upholstered  chairs.  Even  if  she  had  been 
of  a  less  uncompromising  appearance,  Helen  thought, 
she  would  still  have  had  to  be  stiff  in  that  chair. 

"  How  do  you  do,"  she  said.  "  It  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  call." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear,  not  at  all,"  Mrs.  Jennings 
responded  energetically.  "  It  was  my  duty  to  call. 
We  all  know  each  other  in  the  Park.  Of  course,  too, 
we  knew  about  Mr.  Murphy,  and  Mrs.  Davidson 
knows  a  lady  in  Cambridge  who  said  you'd  al- 
ways been  well  spoken  of  there,  though  a  little  over- 


HELEN  21 

dressed.  It  was  Mrs.  Eusden  who  told  her.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  Mrs.  Eusden?" 

"  Yes,"  Helen  said,  "  I  have  met  her." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  her,"  said  Mrs.  Jennings.  "  Mrs. 
Davidson  is  one  of  the  very  most  perticular  ladies  in 
the  Park.  One  of  her  ancestors  by  her  mother's  side 
came  over  in  the  Mayflower,  and  her  grandfather's 
older  brother — much  older,  of  course — was  lieuten- 
ant in  the  Revolutionary  war  with  England.  It's 
strange,  though,"  she  continued,  "  this  Mrs.  Eusden 
didn't  seem  to  know  much  about  your  family.  She 
said  there  were  so  many  Joneses  that  you  could  hardly 
keep  them  apart  in  your  mind,  though  I  must  say  I 
have  known  some  very  nice  ones." 

"  My  name  was  Smith." 

'  To  be  sure  it  was,  but  no  offence.  Still  it  was 
a  natural  mistake,  and  Smith's  even  commoner  than 
Jones  or  Murphy." 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  Well,  you  know  the  old  saying,  '  a  rose  by  any 
other  name,'  so  there's  no  reason  why  you  need  to 
worry.  The  folks  living  in  the  Park  don't  all  of 
them  have  fancy  names,  but  they're  a  different  class 
from  the  rest  of  South  Boston — with  a  few  excep- 
tions, of  course.  Ladies  like  Mrs.  Davenant  of  K. 
Street,  f'r  instance,  feel  misplaced,  and  I  don't  mind 


22  THE   GREEN   VASE 

telling  you  that  when  your  house  was  for  sale — it 
is  yours,  I  hear — a  good  many  of  us  hoped  Mrs.  D. 
could  be  persuaded  to  take  it.  Of  course,  you  under- 
stand, we  don't  mind  you.  We  were  just  afraid  some 
real  ordinary  folks  might  get  in,  and  we  did  want 
Mrs.  Davenant  to  get  what  she  aimed  for.  She  has 
quite  a  walk  to  see  her  friends,  and  of  course  we 
don't  often  care  to  go  to  K  Street." 

"So  the  Park  considers  itself  very  aristocratic?" 
"  Well,  now,  I  wouldn't  just  say  that.  Of  course 
we  can't  help  seeing  that  we're  different  from  the  rest 
of  South  Boston,  but  that  don't  mean  we're  not  dem- 
ocratic. Perhaps  some  might  call  us  just  a  little  bit 
sniffy  to  our  neighbours,  and  I  do  think  of  it  often 
that  perhaps  we  ought  to  do  something  for  them, 
being  placed  so  different.  We  might  have  an  annual 
picnic  for  them  in  the  park,  or  fireworks  on  the 
Fourth.  But  then,  you  see,  if  we  gave  a  finger  they 
might  take  a  hand.  They  might  even  call,  and  of 
course  we  couldn't  have  that.  You  understand,  don't 
you." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  begin  to."  She  remembered  blaz- 
ingly  a  remark  she  had  not  thought  much  of  at  the 
time,  a  casual  remark  she  had  overheard  Stephen 
Bond  make  to  a  man  leaving  his  office:  "  Yes,  it's  just 
as  I  always  said.  The  test  of  a  gentleman  is  that  he 


HELEN  23 

should  be  able  to  treat  his  inferiors  as  though  they 
were  equals,  and  without  toadying,  to  recognise  his 
superiors  when  he  sees  them." 

"  But " — Mrs.  Jennings  reverted  to  the  charge — 
"  we  are  in  a  democratic  country  and  so  we  try  to 
be  democratic.  I  guess  you'll  think  we  are  when  you 
hear  the  ladies  talking  over  the  Social  Life  in  the 
Sunday  paper  after  church.  Why,  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it,  Mrs.  Murphy,  the  way  we  despise  all  those 
snobs  and  rich  folks  in  the  Back  Bay.  I  guess  they 
wouldn't  feel  so  almighty  important  if  they  could 
hear  us  talk  them  over.  Why,  the  way  those  women 
drink  cocktails  and  champagne  and  run  around  with 
other  peoples'  husbands  is  something  scandalous,  and 
then  to  go  and  pay  the  papers  to  put  it  all  in.  Why, 
it's  a  disgrace  to  America,  I  say." 

"  They  don't  pay  the  papers." 

"  Don't  pay !  Well,  I'd  like  to  know.  Didn't  Mrs. 
Searles  that  lives  next  us  have  to  pay  to  have  a  notice 
of  her  daughter's  engagement  to  that  young  Adams 
of  Charlestown  put  in?  And  that  was  real  news; 
the  other  ain't.  Who'd  care  to  know  what  Mrs. 
So-and-so  wore  to  the  opera.  Why  should  the  pa- 
pers put  it  in  if  not  for  pay?  " 

"  To  increase  the  circulation,  I  suppose." 

"  Increase  the — well,  I  never!    Who'd  ever  buy  a 


24  THE   GREEN   VASE 

paper  to  read  that  stuff  excepting  perhaps  those  that 
want  to  see  their  own  names  in  print.  That  might 
help  some." 

**  Don't  you  read  it,  Mrs.  Jennings?  " 

"  I  ?  Well,  of  course,  I  just  take  a  glance  at  it, 
seeing  it's  lying  on  the  parlour  table  and  I  don't  want 
to  appear  ignorant  walking  home  from  church.  But 
that's  not  saying  I'd  go  out  and  buy  it,  and  what's 
more,  if  the  stuff  wasn't  there  I'd  never  look  at  it. 
As  it  is,  I  only  read  it  to  make  myself  thankful  that 
I'm  not  that  kind." 

"  Newspapers  have  to  make  capital  out  of  all  sorts 
of  motives,  Mrs.  Jennings.  Much  of  their  circula- 
tion is  due,  I  suppose,  to  the  desire  of  entirely  worthy 
people  to  have  tangible  cause  of  congratulation  that 
they  are  not  what  they  have  had  either  no  oppor- 
tunity or  no  inherited  instinct  to  become." 

"  I  dare  say,"  Mrs.  Jennings  assented,  not  quite 
sure  what  Helen  meant,  nor  whether  it  was  intended 
for  her  in  particular.  "  All  I  know  is  that  if  I  was 
running  the  papers  they'd  be  different. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Fewer  murders  and  more  silver 
weddings." 

"  Yes,  or  at  least  golden  ones.  Why,  would  you 
believe  it?  When  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cranston  had 
theirs  a  few  weeks  ago  the  Herald  only  gave  two 


HELEN  25 

or  three  lines  to  it,  never  spoke  of  the  golden-shower 
— a  yellow  party,  you  know — and  Mrs.  Stone  and  I 
had  worked  days  over  it,  as  we  told  the  reporter. 
But  all  that  really  don't  matter.  I  called  to  see 
what  I  could  do  for  you,  neighbourly  like,  you 
know." 

;<  Thank  you.     I  think  of  nothing." 

"  Nothing.  But  goodness  gracious,  was  there  ever 
such  a  young  married  woman!  Who's  your 
butcher?" 

"  I  really  don't  know.  Henry  orders  on  his  way 
to  the  office." 

"  Henry  orders!  There  now — and  you  said  there 
was  nothing  I  could  do.  I  presumed  your  kind  of 
work  was  no  training  for  housekeeping,  and  that 
proves  it.  Do  you  know  what'll  happen?  He'll  get 
a  roast  every  day  and  then  he'll  get  the  habit  of  not 
coming  home  to  dinner,  not  having  any  surprise  wait- 
ing for  him.  Just  now,  when  you're  pretty  to  look  at 
and  things  are  new  for  him,  it  may  be  all  right,  but 
you  make  a  man  do  a  woman's  work  as  well  as  his 
and  he's  going  to  get  grumpier  and  grumpier  unless 
he  kicks  over  the  traces  altogether.  I  know 
men." 

"  You  don't  know  my  husband,  Mrs.  Jennings." 

"  Don't  I,  though  ?     Didn't  I  come  to  this  house 


26  THE   GREEN   VASE 

when  he  was  here  with  the  agent  and  go  over  it 
with'  them,  looking  at  it  to  see  if  it  would  possibly 
do  for  Mrs.  Davenant?  " 

"  Oh,  so  it  was  you.  How  funny,"  and  Helen 
laughed  convulsively,  because  she  tried  not  to.  But 
there  was  a  soft,  musical  quality  to  the  laugh,  some- 
thing curiously  private,  as  though  her  soul  were  full 
of  laughter,  the  reason  for  which  the  world  should 
never,  never  know.  It  was  like  a  bird  song,  spontane- 
ously bubbling  from  a  secret  spring,  intensely  but 
unconsciously  selfish. 

All  this  Mrs.  Jennings  could  not  feel.  She  was 
merely  irritated  by  it.  "  I  believe  you  were  say- 
ing  "  she  remarked  frigidly. 

"  No.  I  had  quite  finished.  I  am  sorry  I 
laughed."  She  had  an  insane  wish  to  relate  Henry's 
version  of  the  meeting.  He  had  told  her  of  a  woman 
who  came  to  pry  into  his  affairs — "  snoop  around," 
was  the  expression  he  had  used — and  who  had  asked 
the  most  personal  questions.  Then,  seeing  the  grow- 
ing anger  in  her  guest's  face,  she  added,  "  It  struck 
me  as  so  curious,  Mrs.  Jennings,  that  you,  who  were 
really  the  only  person  of  whom  I  had  heard,  should 
be  the  first  to  call.  It  was  absurd  to  laugh,  I  know, 
and  I  am  very  sorry." 

Mrs.  Jennings  smiled  at  last.    "  I  don't  blame  you 


HELEN  27 

a  bit,  my  dear.  I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get  settled, 
and  all  the  strangeness  of  a  new  house,  and  a  hus- 
band, and  new  friends,  and  not  knowing  anything 
about  anything.  I'm  only  surprised  you  laughed  in- 
stead of  cried." 

Helen  sighed  with  relief.  It  would  have  been 
terrible  to  make  an  enemy  so  soon.  It  would  have 
made  Henry  unhappy  and  perhaps  would  have  done 
real  harm.  "  Yes,  it  is  hard,"  she  said,  "  but  I  hope 
I  shall  learn." 

"  Of  course  you  will,  my  dear,  if  you'll  let  us 
help,  and  now  I  must  be  going.  Mrs.  Searles,  your 
next  door  neighbour,  is  coming  to  see  me  at  eleven- 
thirty." 

"  Please  don't  give  her  too  bad  an  impression  of 
me,"  Helen  said,  smiling. 

At  that  moment  both  were  startled  by  a  violent 
pounding  at  the  door.  The  maid  stood  there  de- 
fiantly, a  box  in  her  hand. 

"  Well?  "  Helen  questioned. 

"  Flowers  for  you,  marm.  If  I  have  to  run  up 
from  the  kitchen  many  more  times,  you  won't  get  no 
dinner."  She  flung  the  box  on  a  chair  and  turned 
to  go. 

"  Do  you  have  trouble  with  maids,  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings? "  Helen  said,  turning  to  her  despairingly.  "  I 


28  THE    GREEN   VASE 

can't  keep  a  girl  like  that — so  dirty,  and  so  terribly 
rude." 

"  Don't  be  too  hasty,  though.  It  ain't  always  easy 
to  get  a  new  one.  And  what's  more,  I  don't  believe 
you  can  cook." 

"  I  can't  boil  a  potato.  We  can  go  to  town  for 
dinner  and  to-morrow  Henry  will  get  another 
maid." 

Again  Mrs.  Jennings  gasped.  "  Well,  my  dear — 
he  getting  a  maid!  If  you  are  not  digging  your  own 
grave  by  this  foolishness,  I  miss  my  guess.  And  him 
so  good  to  you.  Ain't  you  going  to  look  at  those 
flowers?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  flowers.  I  had  forgotten  them." 
She  took  up  the  box  and  tore  off  the  wrappings.  "  I 
wonder  who  sent  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  never,"  Mrs.  Jennings  cried.  "  A  bride 
of  a  month  and  not  knowing  whether  flowers  come 
from  her  husband  or  not.  They're  a  useless  ex- 
travagance, anyway." 

"  Oh,  but  so  lovely — and  such  a  joy  to  have." 

"Orchids!"  Mrs.  Jennings  almost  shrieked  as 
Helen  opened  the  box.  "  Well,  of  all  the  wicked 
waste.  Henry  Murphy  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  him- 
self." 

Helen  opened  the  envelope  that  was  tied  to  the 


HELEN  29 

flowers.  She  gave  a  gasp  of  surprise  as  she  read  the 
name. 

"  It  is  from  a  man  who  was  very  kind  to  me  before 
I  was  married,"  she  said  quietly,  "  so  you  must  not 
blame  Henry,  Mrs.  Jennings."  She  laid  the  flowers 
carressingly  against  her  cheek. 

"  Then  I  consider  it  very  improper  and  not  as  it 
should  be,"  Mrs.  Jennings  said  vigorously.  "  You 
a  bride  of  only  a  month  and  getting  flowers  from 
young  men  when  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  nobody 
but  your  husband.  It  ain't  right." 

"  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Jennings.  The  flow- 
ers are  as  much  a  surprise  to  me  as  they  are  to  you. 
And  can  you  think  of  a  more  charming  way  to  re- 
member a  young  woman — a  bride — than  by  sending 
her  flowers?  " 

"  Orchids!  "  Mrs.  Jennings  retorted.  "  Orchids! 
Probably  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  orchids.  Money 
wasted  that  might  have  been  spent  on  a  new  cook- 
stove." 

Helen  laughed.  "  But  I  don't  need  one.  And 
besides,  that  would  not  have  been  proper.  Flowers 
always  are — who  can  tell  why?  "  She  let  them  rest 
against  her  cheek  again.  "  I  only  know  that  any- 
thing else  would  have  been  an  insult — that  flowers 
are  the  expression  of  a  chivalrous  thought." 


30  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Mrs.  Jennings  tossed  her  head.  "  I  guess  you'll 
find  Henry  Murphy  agrees  with  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
guess  you'll  wish  those  flowers  had  never  come  after 
he  sees  them — if  he  does.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Murphy." 

She  sailed  from  the  room,  leaving  Helen,  still 
smiling  at  the  orchids  in  her  hand. 


CHAPTER   III 

"  HELLO,  dear.  Had  a  good  day?  Better  than  me, 
I  hope.  I'm  dead  beat." 

"  You  poor  boy.  You  mustn't  work  so  hard.  I 
don't  care  about  so  very,  very  much  money,  you 
know."  Helen  laughed  affectionately  as  she  helped 
him  with  his  coat.  He  liked  her  to  do  it  always 
because  of  the  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his  neck  and 
the  little  pat  she  gave  as  the  coat  slipped  from  his 
shoulders.  To-night  she  touched  him  more  than 
usual  and  her  fingers  tingled  on  his  skin.  She  was 
excited.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  the  lights 
sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  great— work,"  he  said,  pressing  her  close  and 
covering  her  forehead  with  his  large  hand  the  more 
deeply  to  gaze  into  her  eyes.  "  It's  great,  because 
you're  something  worth  while  to  work  for.  You 
don't  know  what  it  meant  to  me  in  the  office  to-day, 
thinking  there  was  you  to  come  home  to  and  a  cosy 
little  dinner  waiting,  and  a  long,  quiet  evening  with 
you  and  my  pipe  before  the  fire.  I  wouldn't  go  out 
to-night  for  worlds." 

Her  face  fell.  "  Oh,  Henry,  I  am  so  sorry.  We 

31 


32  THE   GREEN   VASE 

must  go  out.  I  didn't  know  you  would  be  so  disap- 
pointed. We  haven't  any  dinner." 

"No  dinner?  Damn  that  market.  Didn't  they 
send  it?" 

"  It  wasn't  the  market.     The  maid  has  gone." 

"Maid  gone?  Well,  what  in  the  devil's 
name — — " 

"  It  was  my  fault.  She  was  impudent  and  I  sent 
her  away." 

"Impudent,  was  she?  And  you  shipped  her? 
Well,  good  riddance,  anyway.  Only  I  wish  I  could 
have  told  her  what  I  thought  of  her." 

"  So  you  see,  dear,  we'll  just  have  to  go  out. 
That's  why  I  dressed.  We  can  go  to  town  to 
a  hotel  and  have  a  cosy  little  dinner,  just  the 
same." 

"  Cosy,  nonsense — in  a  hotel  full  of  people.  Not 
for  me.  I'm  going  to  stay  planted  right  here.  We'll 
cook  the  dinner  ourselves.  You  trot  along  upstairs 
like  a  good  girl  and  get  off  that  silk  thing,  then  come 
down  and  help.  It  will  be  great  sport."  He  was 
already  off,  whistling  as  he  clattered  down  the  dark 
basement  stairs. 

Helen  stood  dispiritedly  in  the  hall,  her  happy  ex- 
citement gone,  then  went  slowly  upstairs.  But  as 
she  lighted  the  gas  in  her  room  she  pulled  herself 


HELEN  33 

sharply  together.  "  This  is  absurd,"  she  said  aloud, 
and  started  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice.  It  sud- 
denly became  clear  to  her  that  no  dreams  could  come 
true  if  she  allowed  her  mood  to  be  swayed  by  mo- 
mentary disappointments.  What  if  she  could  not  go 
out  that  night.  There  would  be  many  others  the 
same.  She  knew  that  her  husband  was  not  a  man 
to  be  won  to  her  way  of  thinking  by  complaints  and 
tears.  Just  so  long  as  he  believed  their  way  of  life 
was  best  he  would  calmly,  tenderly,  forgivingly,  she 
knew,  bear  with  her  moods,  struggle  to  make  her 
happy  in  his  way,  and  remain  impenetrably  blind  to 
hers.  His  love  for  her  was  too  deep,  too  far-seeing 
to  be  swayed  through  momentary  pity  into  action  that 
would  mean  to  his  saner  thought  ultimate  suffering. 
She  must  learn  from  her  husband  the  lesson  of  sub- 
ordinating present  trouble  to  future  happiness,  must 
live  in  the  consciousness  of  the  happy  moment,  and 
construct  from  the  sum  of  the  moments  gay  or  sad 
the  foundation  of  the  palace  of  her  dreams.  It  is 
one  thing  theoretically  to  realise  that  only  through 
successful  dealing  with  trivial  matters  can  greater 
ends  be  accomplished,  quite  another  to  bear  the  actual 
pin-pricks  without  flinching.  Fortunately  for  Helen 
she  was  a  woman  capable  of  action  and  of  endurance, 
one  who  seldom  postponed  the  beginning  of  a  hard 


34  THE   GREEN   VASE 

task,  because  she  knew  that  with  progress  difficulties 
melted  away. 

She  was  consequently  smiling,  apparently  happy, 
when  she  opened  the  kitchen  door  a  few  minutes  later 
to  find  her  husband  broiling  chops  and  frying  pota- 
toes over  the  range. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said,  looking  approvingly  at 
her  blue  gingham  and  white  apron.  "  I  knew  folks 
like  us  couldn't  be  scared  away  by  a  saucy  Irish  maid. 
She  forgot  we  were  Irish  ourselves,  as  the  name 
shows." 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"  Thrue  ye'  air,  me  darlint,  but  it  don't  take  many 
drops  of  the  owld  blood  to  leaven  the  dough.  Now, 
do  you  be  settin'  the  table  while  I  git  the  praties  off." 

A  little  later  he  put  her  into  her  place  with  a  flour- 
ish and  then  kissed  the  tip  of  her  ear — "  as  the  butler 
would  do  in  one  of  the  grand  houses,"  he  remarked, 
"  if  his  mistress  was  half  as  pretty  as  you." 

"  In  other  words,  be  impudent,  like  Rose,  and  lose 
his  place." 

"  He'd  risk  it,  and  if  he  was  half  as  handsome  as 
me  would  be  forgiven.  You  ought  to  have  said  that, 
and  you've  made  no  remarks  about  the  praties." 

'  They're  delicious."    She  wished  he  had  troubled 
to  put  on  his  coat — or  even  to  take  off  his  waistcoat. 


HELEN  35 

Stephen  Bond  would  never  have  eaten  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, even  after  cooking  potatoes — if  he  knew  how 
to  cook  them.  There  was  something  pleasant  in  the 
idea  that  he  did  not.  It  justified  the  shirt-sleeves. 
She  liked  men  who  could  do  things. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  must  tell  Henry 
about  the  orchids.  "  Mrs.  Jennings  called  to-day." 

;'  The  wife  of  Abe  Jennings  who  runs  this  dis- 
trict?" 

"  I  don't  know — the  one  who  lives  in  the  house 
on  the  corner — the  hideous  one  with  the  tower." 

'  That's  him,  all  right.  I  hope  you  made  her 
purr." 

"Purr?  No.  She  was  a  cat,  though.  She  tried 
to  scratch." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  why?  You  know,  dear,  I 
must  stand  in  with  Jennings  if  I  am  going  to  have 
any  future." 

'  You  ought  to  have  told  me  that.  At  any  rate, 
she's  the  scratching  kind.  You  know  her.  She  helped 
you  buy  the  house." 

'  That  woman !  Good  God !  I  hope  you  didn't 
let  on." 

"  I  almost  did.  I  told  her  you  remembered  it  and 
that  it  was  funny  she  should  be  the  first  to  call.  I  had 
to  say  that,  because  I  laughed." 


36  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  But  she  finally  liked  you,  I  hope."  He  was 
playing  with  his  knife  and  fork  and  watching  her 
closely,  with  an  alertness  she  had  never  seen  before, 
that  suggested  his  mastery  and  that  insisted  on  sub- 
servience to  his  prospects.  "  She  left  in  a  pleasant 
mood?" 

"  No.  I  did  not  say  that,  but  it  was  no  fault  of 
mine." 

"What  happened?" 

"  Some  flowers  came  for  me,  and  when  she  said  it 
was  very  extravagant  for  you  to  send  them,  I  told 
her  you  had  not.  She  thought  it  very  improper — 
that  flowers  were  a  waste  of  money  for  any  one." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her  who  sent  them?  Who 
was  it?  " 

"  Mr.  Bond." 

"  Bond?    Why  should  he  send  you  flowers?  " 

u  Just  out  of  kindness,  Henry.  Surely  you  do  not 
mind.  See,  here  is  the  note  which  came  with  them. 
I  brought  it  down  to  show  you.  Read  it  aloud." 

11  *  DEAR  MRS.  MURPHY,'  he  read,  *  I  saw  you  at 
the  theatre  last  night  with  your  husband  and  am 
sending  you  these  flowers  as  a  welcome  back  to  Bos- 
ton. May  your  life  always  be  as  happy  as  it  deserves 
to  be.  Sincerely,  STEPHEN  BOND.'  Well,  I  must 


HELEN  37 

say  that  sounds  decent.  Why  didn't  you  tell  Mrs. 
Jennings?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  she  would  not  understand.  She 
probably  knows  who  he  is  and — after  all,  Henry,  it 
was  mere  curiosity." 

Henry  lighted  his  pipe  and  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  table.  "  I  can 
understand  your  feelings,"  he  said  slowly;  "  still,  I 
don't  know.  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  to 
explain.  You  want  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  the 
ladies  in  the  Park,  and  of  course  it's  important  to 
me." 

"  More  important  than  my  self-respect?  "  she  asked 
quickly.  "  No,  I  didn't  mean  that,  but  I  wanted  you 
to  take  my  side,  instantly,  completely." 

"  I  hope  I  always  will,  dear.  Only  sometimes  our 
ideas  may  differ.  For  your  sake  as  well  as  mine  I 
want  Mrs.  Jennings  to  like  you.  So  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  you  know,  you  could  do  nothing  that  would 
make  me  love  you  or  trust  you  less.  Let's  go  up- 
stairs and  light  the  parlour  fire." 

She  followed  somewhat  reluctantly,  dissatisfied 
with  him  and  with  herself.  Perhaps  she  had  not 
been  wise,  but  neither  had  he  been  sympathetic. 
What  was  more,  she  felt  that  he  was  not  pleased 
with  the  flowers,  as  she  had  been,  and  at  the  same 


38  THE   GREEN   VASE 

time  that  half  her  pleasure  was  gone  because  he  did 
not  share  it  with  her.  For  the  first  time  something 
real,  if  intangible,  had  come  between  them.  She 
knew  that  it  was  only  a  cloud,  easily  to  be  dissipated, 
but  even  the  cloud  troubled  her.  She  needed  his  love 
and  his  support  too  keenly  to  draw  back,  but  before 
she  could  speak  the  door-bell  rang.  Henry  went  into 
the  hall,  and  then  followed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jennings 
into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Jennings  bowed  stiffly,  the  hard,  straight  line 
of  her  mouth  making  her  thin  lips  disappear  alto- 
gether. She  looked  quickly  about  the  room  and 
smiled  grimly  as  she  saw  the  flowers  were  nowhere 
in  sight.  "  This  is  Mr.  Jennings,"  she  remarked 
as  though  introductions  were  unpleasant  tasks.  "  We 
came  to  give  you  a  little  advice,  seeing  as  you  are 
new  to  the  Park.  I  notice  the  flowers  are  not  in 
sight." 

"  No,"  Helen  said  quietly.  "  We  have  just  fin- 
ished our  supper  and  I  was  going  to  get  them  when 
you  came." 

"  It  was  about  them,  mostly,  that  we  came  to 
talk,"  Mrs.  Jennings  went  on.  "  The  ladies  in  the 
Park  agree  with  me  that  it  ain't  right  for  any  woman 
to  be  getting  gifts  of  flowers  from  strange  men — es- 
pecially brides." 


HELEN  39 

"Are  you  thinking  of  the  flowers  Mr.  Bond  sent, 
Helen?  "  Henry  asked. 

"  Oh,  she's  told  you,  has  she?  I'm  sure  she  never 
told  you  about  any  others,  nor  about  how  she  kisses 
them,  and  goes  on  about  them." 

"  Mrs.  Jennings ! "  Helen  cried,  her  cheeks 
flaming. 

"  Yes,  Amanda,"  Mr.  Jennings  interposed  sooth- 
ingly. "  Ain't  you  going  a  bit  fast?"  He  was  a 
little  man,  with  sandy  grey  hair,  who  kept  himself 
discreetly  in  the  background. 

"  I'll  thank  you  to  hold  your  tongue,  Mr.  Jen- 
nings. You  wasn't  here."  Mrs.  Jennings  turned 
fiercely  to  Henry.  "  What  have  you  to  say  about 
this?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered,  putting  his  arm  around 
his  wife,  "  except  to  say  that  you  are  mistaken.  Here 
is  the  note  that  came  with  the  flowers.  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  read  it?  " 

Helen  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  him,  but  he  in- 
sisted. Mrs.  Jennings  glared  at  her,  then  at  the 
note.  After  reading  it,  she  folded  it  precisely  and 
handed  it  back.  "  All  I've  got  to  say  is,"  she  re- 
marked, "  that  buttered  words  don't  hide  the  tiger's 
claws." 

"  Really,    Amanda,"    Mr.    Jennings    interposed 


40  THE   GREEN   VASE 

again,  "  you  may  be  mistaken,  you  know.     We  did 
not  come  to  scold,  but  to  give  advice." 

Mrs.  Jennings  glared  at  him,  then  at  Henry.  "  All 
the  same,  young  man,"  she  said,  "  you're  young,  and 
foolish,  and  poor,  and  there's  a  queer  kind  of  fascina- 
tion about  a  rich  man  that  sends  expensive  flowers 
to  a  girl  who  thinks  she's  safe  because  she's  mar- 
ried." 

Henry,  still  holding  his  wife  tightly,  answered  her 
at  last.  "  We  want  to  do  what  is  right,  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings— Helen  just  as  much  as  me.  We  want  to  be 
friends  with  all  the  nice  people  in  the  Park,  but  we 
want  them  to  know  that  we  have  just  as  much  morals 
as  they  have,  and  that  in  little  things  we  must 
decide  for  ourselves.  Helen  I  trust  as  I  do  my- 
self." 

"  We'll  see,"  Mrs.  Jennings  answered  frigidly. 
"  We  want  to  be  friends,  too,  and  it's  only  friendly 
to  sound  a  warning.  Come,  Mr.  Jennings." 

She  stalked  from  the  room,  followed  at  the  usual 
discreet  distance  by  her  husband,  who  stopped  at  the 
door  to  say  softly,  "  I'm  awfully  sorry  about  this. 
Amanda's  hard  to  manage  when  she's  riled,  but  it'll 
blow  over.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  some  day  about  this 
car  strike.  Things  look  pretty  black,  and  we  must 
get  in  some  good  work,  what?  " 


HELEN  41 

"  Any  day,"  Henry  answered;  "  it  would  be  rotten 
to  have  the  service  tied  up." 

"  Mr.  Jennings,  I'm  waiting."  Mrs.  Jennings' 
voice  sounded  angrily  from  the  hall. 

"  I'm  coming,  my  dear,  I'm  coming.  You  won't 
be  down  on  us,  will  you,  Mrs.  Murphy?  " 

She  smiled  at  him  as  brightly  as  she  could.  Her 
lips  quivered  and  she  was  cold,  but  Mr.  Jennings 
pretended  to  see  only  the  smile.  "  Thank  you,  my 
dear,"  he  said  eagerly,  as  he  hurried  after  his 
wife. 

For  a  short  time  they  stood  silently,  Helen  looking 
into  the  fire  and  feeling  helplessly  that  the  tears,  one 
by  one,  overflowed  her  eyelids  and  ran  down  her 
cheeks,  Henry,  beside  the  table,  playing  abstractedly 
with  a  huge,  yellow  wooden  paper-cutter  on  which 
was  burned  the  word,  "  Yosemite." 

"  May  I  see  the  flowers?  "  he  said,  at  last,  very 
gently. 

Helen  brought  them  from  her  room — a  mass  of 
exquisite  pale  violet  orchids  with  throats  of  royal 
purple.  They  were  in  a  plain  glass  bowl  she  had 
at  last  found  in  the  kitchen  after  trying  them  with 
painful  result  in  all  the  gaudy  glass  and  china  vases 
with  which  the  various  mantels  and  tables  were  punc- 
tuated. She  set  them  down  now  in  front  of  her  hus- 


42  THE    GREEN   VASE 

band,  saying,  "  I  should  have  left  them  here  if  they 
had  not  been  killed  by  the  hideous  red  paper,  and 
even  without  it,  nothing  could  look  well  in  a  room 
with  that  dreadful  vase  of  your  uncle's." 

He  glanced  at  her  furtively,  wondering  whether 
she  remembered  that  the  paper  had  been  his  choice, 
but  saw  that  she  was  suffering  too  keenly  to  be  con- 
sciously cruel.  He  took  up  one  of  the  flowers  and 
studied  it  closely,  holding  it  between  thumb  and  fore- 
finger, and  with  the  other  hand  bending  back  the  en- 
folding petals  so  that  he  could  see  through  the  purple 
throat  the  yellow  heart  of  it.  "  How  beautiful,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  the  shading  of  the  different  colours. 
I  have  never  seen  an  orchid  before,  except  in  a  florist's 
window." 

Helen  shivered.  "  Henry,"  she  cried  sharply. 
"Why  didn't  you  speak  up  for  me?"  She  caught 
the  edge  of  the  table  and  stood,  swaying  slightly, 
searching  his  face  across  the  purple  cloud  of  flowers. 
He  was  still  peering  into  the  orchid  in  his  hand. 

"  I  guess  it  was  these,"  he  answered,  indicating  the 
flowers. 

She  drew  back  a  little.  "These?  But  you  just 
said  they  were  beautiful." 

"  So  they  are— but " 

"  But  what?    Henry,  surely  you  understand.    You 


HELEN  43 

said  the  note  was  quite  right.  You  did  not  let  what 
Mrs.  Jennings  said  affect  you?" 

"  Mrs.  Jennings  be  damned.  I'm  not  that  kind 
of  a  fool.  It  was  the  flowers  themselves — the 
orchids." 

"  The  flowers  themselves,  Henry?  I  don't  under- 
stand," she  said  piteously. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  dear."  He  threw  his  flower 
into  the  fire  and  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the 
sofa.  "  That's  the  goodness  and  the  sweetness  and 
the  dearness  of  you.  Why,  you  never  told  me  they 
were  orchids." 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know — but  orchids  aren't  easy  to  ex- 
plain." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  it's  just  this  way.  Those  flowers  cost  prob- 
ably fifty  dollars." 

"  I  never  thought  of  the  price " 

"  But  I  did  and  Mrs.  Jennings  did.  When  a  man 
sends  flowers  to  a  friend  he  doesn't  spend  fifty  dol- 
lars. He  sends  roses  or  violets  or  two  or  three 
orchids,  or  two  or  three  of  those  newfangled,  sweet- 
smelling  white  things " 

"  Gardenias." 

"  Yes,  gardenias.    A  bouquet  like  that  he  sends  to 


44  THE    GREEN    VASE 

a  chorus  girl  or  a — well,  a  woman  he  doesn't  respect. 
He  wants  to  impress  her.  He  thinks  she'll  warm  up 
to  the  price  more  than  to  the  flowers." 

"  And  that's  how  he  thought  of  me — as  some  one 
to  impress  with  his  money.  Oh,  Henry,  how  could 
he?  And  I  was  so  happy " 

"  Well,  he  showed  bad  taste  and  he  made  a  big 
mistake." 

She  winced  at  the  truth  of  his  words,  hurt  deeply 
that  Stephen  Bond  should  instinctively  put  her  in 
a  class  from  which  she  shrank,  miserable  that  her 
own  instinct  had  not  taken  warning,  and  angry  that 
Henry  should  have  to  teach  her  a  lesson  she  should 
have  known.  Her  childish  delight  in  the  flowers  was 
turning  into  loathing. 

"But,  dear,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  He  never  gave 
me  anything  when  I  was  in  his  office.  Why  didn't 
he  then,  if  that  is  what  he  means?  " 

"  Because  he's  that  kind  of  a  man — the  kind  that 
doesn't  want  what's  under  his  nose  and  that's  his 
for  the  asking,  but  that  wants  it  bad  when  it  belongs 
to  somebody  else  and  he's  got  to  be  mean  to 
get  it." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  he  sent  the  flowers  just  to 
be  kind." 

"  No,  I  don't.     I  did  just  at  first,  but  the  more 


HELEN  45 

I  think  about  it  the  more  I  don't.  He  wouldn't 
throw  away  fifty  dollars  like  that." 

Helen  jumped  to  her  feet  and  stood  before  him, 
her  eyes  and  cheeks  burning,  her  lips  compressed  in 
a  white  line.  "  There,  at  last,  you're  wrong.  I  know 
him,  and  you  don't.  He's  not  that  kind.  You  were 
right  to  say  the  flowers  were  an  insult  because  it  was 
wicked  of  him  to  think  me  the  kind  of  woman  who 
would  calculate  the  price.  To-morrow  I  will  take 
them  to  the  hospital.  But  Mr.  Bond  is  a  good  man. 
Haven't  I  seen  the  courtesy  in  his  treatment  of  the 
girls.  Why,  he  never  even  sees  them  when  he  says 
'  Good-morning.'  He  had  the  luck  to  be  born  a  gen- 
tleman, and  he  never  forgets  it." 

"  Shucks  I  He  was  born  a  dirty,  howling  little  brat 
like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  then,  when  he 
began  to  grow  up,  his  mother,  who  was  a  snob, 
taught  him  all  that  gentleman  fairy-tale  business, 
and  he  learned  it  so  hard  that  he  can't  find  out  that 
other  boys  and  girls  he  never  knew  may  grow  up  to 
be  as  good  as  him.  How  about  what  he  thought  of 
you?" 

"Of  me?"  She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat.  "Of 
me?  Why,  I  suppose  he  thought — oh,  instinctively 
classed  me  with  so  many  working  girls.  I  haven't 
had  his  advantages.  I  wish — so  much — I  had." 


46  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  Rot.  That  kind  of  talk  makes  me  sick.  You're 
as  good  as  the  best.  I'd  like  to  hear  any  one  say 
anything  else  of  my  wife !  " 

"  How  about  Mrs.  Jennings?  " 

"Mrs. Oh,  Helen,  forget  it.  I  did  all  I 

thought  I  could  with  that  kind  of  a  woman.  Come, 
let's  go  to  bed.  Any  one  to  hear  us  would  think 
we'd  been  married  ten  years  instead  of  a  month. 
To-morrow  I'll  go  for  a  servant  girl." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I  had  better  do  that." 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  Bond  house  was  one  of  those  dignified  old  yel- 
low brick  structures,  the  windows  of  which  overlook 
the  Common.  Stephen  lived  there  alone.  For  years 
the  Mothers'  Campaign  had  raged  around  him,  but 
the  old  house  was  still  without  a  mistress.  Even  the 
butler,  who  had  stood  behind  the  master's  chair  on 
the  night  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elisha  Bond  had  re- 
turned from  their  wedding  trip  and  had  officiated 
tearfully  at  the  funerals  that  one  by  one  marked 
the  passing  of  members  of  the  family — even  he,  the 
faithful  Spriggs,  had  ceased  to  remind  Mr.  Stephen 
that  he  was  the  last  of  the  name  and  that  it  would 
be  well  once  more  to  hear  a  woman's  laugh  in  the 
wainscotted  library.  Stephen  was  obdurate.  He  was 
not  averse  to  marriage,  but  he  was  decidedly  unwill- 
ing to  be  driven  into  marriage.  He  had  laughed 
when  a  friend  said  to  him,  "  You  would  have  mar- 
ried Katherine  Bland,  Steve,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
her  mother's  frenzied  first-aid-to-the-injured  " — but 
the  laugh  had  not  been  without  its  tinge  of  hidden 
bitterness,  because  he  really  had  liked  Katherine  un- 
commonly well  ever  since  they  had  played  as  children 

47 


48  THE   GREEN   VASE 

together,  and  had  been  quite  literally  frightened 
away  by  her  mother's  overpowering  welcome  when 
he  had  begun  to  show  a  deeper  interest.  He  had 
watched  Katherine  grow  from  girlhood  into  a  charm- 
ing, unspoiled  womanhood,  fresh  as  the  woods 
around  her  father's  country  house.  And  then,  lately, 
he  had  seen  her  harden,  caught  the  first  sparks  of 
cynicism,  and  had  wondered,  fearfully,  whether  he 
had  been  a  little  to  blame. 

He  was  a  true  Bostonian  in  his  distrust  of  enthusi- 
asm. It  seemed  to  him  as  a  rule  vulgar,  at  its  best, 
as  denoting  extreme  youth.  He  always  wanted  to 
make  up  his  own  mind  quite  calmly  and  without  a 
suggestion  of  coercion.  If  his  fruit-dealer  was  loud 
in  his  praise  of  a  new  brand  of  Oregon  apples, 
Stephen,  who  loved  apples,  would  certainly  choose 
a  box  of  sound-looking  Gravensteins,  only  to  eat  with 
delight  at  a  friend's  house  the  next  day  a  sample 
of  the  new  variety.  On  the  stock  market  his  attitude 
was  the  same,  inherited  from  his  father.  He  was 
afraid  of  anything  new. 

As  it  happened,  Stephen  and  his  companion  at 
dinner,  Philip  Moncrieff,  were  discussing  this  very 
question  of  enthusiasm  over  their  coffee  and  cigars  in 
the  dim  library  one  evening  late  in  May. 

"  It  has  always  struck  me,"  said  Moncrieff,  "  that 


HELEN  49 

you  Americans,  here  in  this  little  corner  of  the  coun- 
try, have  hardly  outlived  the  eighteenth  century. 
You  have  quite  the  attitude  of  mind  of  Englishmen 
of  the  Georgian  period.  You  have  never  had  a 
Reform  Bill  to  make  you  conscious  of  the  rights 
of  the  average  man.  I  wonder  whether  you  even 
know  there  is  such  an  individual." 

"  We  ought  to.  Few  cities  are  more  vilely  gov- 
erned." 

"  The  city — yes,  as  a  political  entity.  But  the  city 
is  not  American.  It's  Irish,  Italian — anything  but 
American.  And  the  Irish  politicians  who  govern  you 
— they're  not  average  men.  They're  deucedly  clever, 
far-seeing,  vigorous-minded — all  for  themselves,  of 
course.  But,  after  all,  so  are  you,  the  ruling  classes, 
as  you  are  falsely  called.  You  don't  rule,  however, 
because  you  think  it  vulgar  to  take  a  really  active  part 
in  politics.  You're  afraid  of  meeting  the  average 
man  for  fear  that  you  might  contract  some  of  his 
enthusiasm.  '  Sufficient  unto  the  Hub  is  the  central 
pivot  thereof  '  might  be  your  motto ;  you,  the  aris- 
tocracy, being  that  pivot." 

"  So  you  would  suggest  a  little  more  energy  in 
the  pivot.  I  always  supposed  that  should  be  sta- 
tionary." 

"  Analogies  do  not  always  hold — certainly  not  here. 


50  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Call  Boston  a  machine,  if  you  will,  but  grant  it  life. 
Its  wheels  grow  and  spin  faster  day  by  day.  It  may 
be  the  hub  of  the  universe,  as  one  of  your  wits  put  it 
— that  is,  you  may  think  it  is.  But  all  the  same,  to 
the  majority  of  its  citizens  it  is  the  universe,  and 
they're  going  to  make  what  they  can  out  of  it.  They 
are  not  going  to  allow  their  splendid  new  machine 
to  go  to  pieces  because  of  any  inadequate  pivot.  The 
pivot  has  got  to  keep  pace  with  the  rest  of  the  growth 
or  be  discarded.  That's  about  where  the  Boston 
aristocracy  finds  itself  to-day.  It  used  to  be  adequate 
when  the  city  was  a  village.  To  an  outsider  it  looks 
rather  silly  as  the  representative  of  a  modern 
city." 

Stephen  laughed.  "  I  like  your  energy,  old  man, 
but  what  am  I  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Get  some  enthusiasm.  Be  absurdly  bold.  Do 
something  extremely  silly  that  you  will  spend  years 
in  publicly  regretting  while  you  rejoice  over  it  in 
private.  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  the  old 
world  live." 

"  But  if  such  things  don't  appeal  to  me?  " 

"  Then  give  up  the  game  and  move  to  Concord, 
where  there  is  no  progress  to  stand  in  the  way  of. 
Sit  in  your  library  and  shiver  at  the  intellectual  heresy 
of  Chesterton,  and  if  you  feel  that  you  must  do 


HELEN  51 

something  shocking,  tell  your  gardener  to  plant  a  bed 
of  pink  and  scarlet  zinnias.  But,  heaven  on  earth, 
Steve,  you're  not  that  kind.  You've  got  it  in  you 
to  do  things,  big  things,  startling  things.  The  same 
blood  crawls  through  your  veins  that  crawled  through 
the  veins  of  those  fellows  who  threw  the  tea  over- 
board— only  it  didn't  crawl  any  more  when  the  time 
came.  I  suppose  you  are  a  bit  ashamed  of  them,  as 
you  are  of  the  abolitionists." 

"  I  do  rather  think  they  lost  their  heads." 

"  Of  course  they  did,  God  bless  'em,  for  he  that 
loseth  his  head  shall  surely  find  his  soul." 

Stephen  laughed  again.  "  A  dangerous  doctrine, 
that,  my  dear  friend.  But  since  you  have  established 
yourself  as  mentor  you  might  suggest  something 
definite." 

"  Suggest  something  definite,"  Moncrieff  shouted, 

"  suggest Oh,    Lord,    how   like    a    Bostonian. 

Here  I  tell  you  to  lose  your  head,  and  you  ask  me 
the  most  approved  and  entirely  aristocratic  way  of 
doing  it." 

"  As  I  remember,  I  had  no  particular  wish  to  lose 
my  head,"  Stephen  said,  somewhat  peevishly.  "  You 
were  the  one  who  seemed  to  think  it  would  be  a 
valuable  experience." 

"  So  I  did — now  don't  spoil  it  all  by  losing  that 


52  THE   GREEN   VASE 

admirably  behaved  temper  of  yours  instead.  That 
wasn't  what  I  suggested.  Let  me  think.  Are  you 
religious?  " 

"  I  am  a  Unitarian." 

"  So  I  might  have  known.  No  hope  there.  To  be 
religious  one  must  have  faith,  belief  in  something. 
I  don't  suppose  you'd  be  willing  to  turn  Roman 
Catholic?" 

"  Emphatically,  no." 

"  Quite  right.  You  couldn't  possibly  digest  real 
faith.  I  only  mentioned  the  matter  because  if  you 
are  to  lose  your  head  for  the  civic  good  it  is  impor- 
tant that  you  should  have  to  hunt  for  it  among  the 
despised  average  men — and  the  Roman  Church  is 
full  of  them." 

"  Such  men  don't  bother  about  logic." 

"  On  the  contrary.  That's  why  the  Roman  Church 
is  so  full  of  them.  They're  logic  mad,  and  if  there 
is  any  institution  more  founded  on  logic,  fed  on  logic, 
damned  and  saved  through  logic,  it's  Rome.  That's 
how  the  Church  gets  converts — through  logic,  and 
that's  also  why  she  does  not  get  many  really  intelli- 
gent converts,  because  the  man  of  well  rounded  intel- 
ligence has  learned  the  limitations  of  logic.  You're 
illogical — you  Unitarians — because  you  neglect  one- 
half  of  human  nature,  the  emotions,  just  as  people 


HELEN  53 

like  the  Methodists  neglect  the  other  half,  pure  in- 
tellect." 

"  You  suggest  the  bull,  then,  that  I  lose  my  head 
through  logic." 

"  Exactly.  There  never  has  been  such  a  potent 
cause  of  insanity — but  it's  not  for  you.  I  ought  to 
have  known  that.  How  about  politics?  You  proba- 
bly have  a  horribly  developed  sense  of  duty,  and  if 
you  could  be  made  to  feel  that  the  salvation  of  Bos- 
ton depended  on  you " 

"  But  it  doesn't.  The  salvation  of  Boston — the 
present  city  of  Boston — is  quite  unimportant  to  me. 
Beside  which  I  cannot  and  will  not  get  myself  into 
any  predicament  that  will  call  for  public  speeches." 

"  I  see.  Vanish  the  political  madness.  Since  you 
have  your  motor,  I  don't  suppose  the  present  tram- 
car  strike  interests  you." 

"  I  am  not  so  selfish.  Of  course  it  interests  me. 
It's  an  abomination." 

"  Good.  That's  a  vigorous  word,  abomination. 
Would  you  go  out  and  die  for  the  strikers,  or  would 
you  like  to  run  cars  through  their  lines  and  shoot 
all  those  who  try  to  interfere?" 

Stephen  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 
"  Neither.  Fortunately,  I  can  see  matters  too  clearly 
for  that.  Both  sides  are  at  fault." 


54  THE    GREEN   VASE 

"  Oh,  Lord!" 

"  They  are.  Of  course,  hotheads  like  Murphy  see 
only  one  side  of  the  question.  He  talked  in  my 
office  yesterday  morning  like  a  boy  orator — the  com- 
pany had  been  cutting  off  wages  here  and  adding 
on  extra  work  there  until  now  the  men  lived  like  dogs 
— got  home  to  their  wives  late  at  night,  ready  to 
drop,  they  were  so  tired,  and  with  just  money  enough 
in  their  jeans  to  buy  the  bare  necessities — not  enough, 
when  they  had  large  families.  To  him  they  were 
martyrs  undergoing  the  sufferings  of  a  veritable  in- 
quisition." 

"And  the  other  side?" 

"  The  other?  The  company?  He  simply  ignored 
the  fact  that  it,  too,  had  rights,  and  obligations  to 
its  stockholders.  I  admitted  that  the  men  were  not 
properly  paid  and  that  their  hours  were  too  long, 
but  I  told  him  the  Union  could  not  be  allowed  to 
dictate  terms." 

"Are  they  trying  to?" 

"Are  they?  Well,  rather.  Their  first  demand 
is  that  certain  old  and  trusted  employees  who  are 
not  Union  members  should  be  discharged." 

"  Well?    What  did  Murphy  say?  " 

"  He  said  there  never  was  a  reform  carried  through 
that  could  please  every  one,  that  the  few  had  to  suffer 


HELEN  55 

for  the  good  of  the  many.  I  could  not  follow  him 
there,  practically,  because  I  could  not  see  what  good 
would  result  from  the  obviously  unfair  treatment  of 
these  old  servants." 

"H'm.     What  Murphy?" 

"Murphy?"  Stephen  stopped  abruptly  in  his 
walk,  took  down  a  book  from  the  shelf  nearest  him, 
and  began  aimlessly  to  turn  over  the  leaves.  Mon- 
crieff  watched  him  curiously.  "  He's  a  young  man 
down  town — had  a  legal  training  and  has  taken  up 
stocks,  I  believe.  No  particular  family,  but  person- 
ally respectable.  Making  a  name  for  himself  in  pol- 
itics as  well  as  in  trade.  Decided  ability,  I  should 
say,  but  a  bit  raw.  Irish,  generations  back,  I  sup-, 
pose.  Family's  always  lived  hereabout.  My  grand- 
father used  to  buy  horses  from  his." 

"Married?" 

Stephen  looked  up  quickly,  then  back  at  his  book. 
"  I  have  heard  so." 

"  Indeed."  Moncrieff  grinned.  "  Had  you  heard 
he  married  your  bookkeeper?  " 

Stephen  tossed  his  book  on  the  table.  "  Certainly 
I  had  heard  it,  but  how  in  the  devil  did  you  know 
anything  about  it,  and  what  difference  does  it  make, 
anyway?  " 

"  I  heard  at  the  Club  last  night." 


56  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  At  the  Club !  I  might  have  known  it.  Of  all 
gossipping,  scandal-mongering  places  that  is  the 
worst.  Now,  what  possible  reason  could  a  lot  of 
American  gentlemen  have  in  telling  a  stranger  about 
my  bookkeeper  and  Henry  Murphy?  " 

"  Really,  my  dear  Steve,  there's  nothing  to  get  hot 
under  the  collar  about.  They  were  talking  of  the 
strike  and  the  leaders,  and  naturally  mentioned  Mur- 
phy. Then  some  one  said,  '  Is  he  the  fellow  who 
married  that  pretty  girl  in  Stuyvesant  and  Bond's 
office?  '  and  some  one  else  said,  '  Yes.'  That  was  all 
— not  very  scandalous,  I  thought." 

"  But  totally  unnecessary.  One  does  not  identify 
a  prominent  man  by  reference  to  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  yes,  one  does,  often,  if  she  is  pretty.  I 
merely  happened  to  mention  it  and  quite  unexpectedly 
struck  a  spark.  How  pretty  is  she?" 

"  By  George,  Phil,"  Stephen  cried  angrily,  "  that's 
going  a  bit  too  far,  you  know.  I'm  no  Don  Juan, 
and  what's  more  to  the  point,  Helen  Murphy  is  a 
lady." 

Moncrieff  shrugged.  "  That's  all  right,  old  chap. 
I  didn't  know  she  was  a  lady.  You  seem  to  have 
a  deuced  lot  of  interest  in  her.  Why  didn't  you 
discover  her  sooner?  " 

"Why   didn't    I?"     He    stopped   abruptly    and 


HELEN  57 

picked  up  the  book  from  where  it  had  fallen  on  the 
table.  "  Have  you  ever  seen  this  copy  of  the  '  Hours 
of  Idleness  ' — a  splendid  tall  one.  I  picked  it  up 
at  Sotheby's  one  day  last  summer." 

"  And  these  days  find  Byron  more  congenial  than 
Emerson.  He  does  seem  to  fit  extraordinarily  with 
certain  moods.  Come  along,  Steve,  tell  me  more 
about  her." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell.     She  is  married." 

"  That  wouldn't  matter  to  one  who  had  courage, 
and  enthusiasm — and  who  dared  lose  his  head." 

'  That's  just  it,  Phil,  I  don't  dare — because  I  hope 
I'm  not  a  cad." 

"  And  couldn't  be  if  you  tried.  Tell  me;  I'm  not 
a  Bostonian  and  I  am  your  friend.  If  I  could  help 
you  find  yourself — well,  old  man,  it  would  be  jolly 
well  worth  my  little  voyage  over  here.  She  was  in 
your  office " 

"  Yes."  Stephen  seated  himself  in  a  deep  chair 
before  the  fire,  and  with  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  legs 
stretched  out  straight  before  him,  seemed  to  talk 
more  to  himself  than  to  his  companion.  "  Yes,  she 
was  in  my  office.  She  was  young,  and  quiet,  and  very 
pretty.  I  knew  it  subconsciously,  because  I  never 
really  looked  at  her.  One  of  the  most  stringent  rules 
of  the  office  is  that  the  girls  shall  be  treated  like  ladies 


58  THE   GREEN   VASE 

— like  machines,  it  might  be  fairer  to  say.  If  any 
clerk  forgets  it,  or  any  girl  either,  for  that  matter,  we 
fill  the  place  with  some  one  who  will  remember.  All 
that  may  sound  quixotic  and  visionary,  but  the  result 
is  that  we  have  a  splendid,  self-respecting  force  of 
workers.  This  girl,  Helen  Smith,  came  to  us  direct 
from  Simmons  College,  and  was  put  on  the  books. 
She  fell  instinctively,  gratefully,  I  think,  into  the  office 
regulations.  I  liked  her  because  I  always  felt  that 
she  was  ready  to  learn  and  to  make  the  most  of 
her  opportunities  in  the  way  a  self-respecting  girl 
should." 

"  And  all  this  time  you  never  thought  of  her?  " 

"  As  a  woman,  no.  I  should  as  soon  have  thought 
of  making  love  to  my  mother's  parlour-maid  as  to 
her — sooner,  if  I  had  been  that  kind,  since  I  naturally 
feel  personal  responsibility  about  the  girls  in  the  of- 
fice. Then  one  day  she  came  to  me  to  say  she  was 
leaving — she  had  been  with  us  two  years.  I  asked 
her  why;  and  she  said  she  was  going  to  marry  Mur- 
phy. I  told  her  he  was  a  lucky  man — quite  the 
normal  thing  to  say.  She  was  married  the  next  week, 
I  saw  by  the  paper." 

"And  then?" 

"  Well — there  isn't  much  more,  and  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  interest  you.  When  they  got  back 


HELEN  59 

from  their  honeymoon,  I  saw  them  one  night  at  the 
theatre.  I  had  almost  forgotten  her,  I  thought,  but 
seeing  her  there,  like  any  other  lady,  I  realised  that 

she  was  really  a  woman  and  that — well It's  all 

this  old  Boston  feeling — same  the  world  over,  I  sup- 
pose. It  blinded  me.  Until  I  could  see  her  as  I  see 
other  ladies  I  had  never  really  seen  her  at  all." 

"  Was  her  family  respectable?  " 

"  Quite — distinguished,  in  fact,  two  or  three  gen- 
erations back,  but  unfortunate.  Her  father  died 
when  she  was  a  baby,  and  her  mother  sank  into  a 
querulous  and  incapable  widowhood — simply  van- 
ished because  she  had  not  the  character  to  wear  pov- 
erty with  dignity." 

"And  was  this  all?" 

"  Just  about.  The  next  morning  I  sent  her  some 
flowers.  I  wanted  the  best  there  were  and  I  sent 
orchids — too  many.  It  was  bad  form,  and  her  note 
showed  that  she  was  hurt." 

"  Her  husband  is  a  decent  chap,  you  say?  " 

"  Splendid.  She  is  probably  happier  than  she  ever 
would  have  been  with  me — and  then  I  never  should 
have  married  her  if  he  hadn't,  because  I  never  should 
have  seen  her." 

"  Shall  you  meet  her  again?  " 

"  Yes,   I  go  to  her  house  to-morrow  night.     A 


60  THE   GREEN   VASE 

dinner  of  those  interested  in  putting  an  end  to  the 
strike." 

"  You  will  not  lose  your  head?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  There  are  generations  of  re- 
serve behind  me." 

Moncrieff  gripped  his  shoulder  affectionately. 
"  Be  careful,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "  To  lose  your  head 
in  this  case  would  be  to  damn,  not  to  find  your  soul." 


CHAPTER   V 

THEY  were  waiting  for  the  guests.  Helen  had  pro- 
tested against  being  seen  at  all,  but  her  husband  had 
wanted  her  to  receive  them  and  to  give  them  coffee 
after  dinner.  "  It's  just  as  well  not  to  let  it  be  too 
masculine,"  he  said.  "  Knowing  you're  here  may 
make  them  less  violent.  There's  nothing  like  a  pretty 
woman  to  make  men  see  sense." 

"  Or  lose  what  little  they  have." 

"  Of  course.  But  not  in  the  way  I  mean.  Nobody 
is  going  to  lose  his  head  over  my  wife  when  I'm 
around." 

"  In  some  ways  it  must  be  annoying  to  be  so  lit- 
eral, Henry,"  she  responded. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  that — not  much -imagination.  I 
made  a  fool  of  myself,  as  I  told  you,  about  Bond. 
He  may  have  ideas  I  don't  go  in  for — but  he's 
straight.  I  like  him  right  through,  especially  since 
he  spoke  about  the  orchids  himself  and  really  apol- 
ogised for  sending  so  many.  Be  good  to  him  to- 
night." 

The  parlour,  where  they  were  waiting,  was  bril- 
liant, with  every  gas-jet  lighted.  Helen  said  it  looked 

6l 


62  THE   GREEN   VASE 

as  though  they  were  preparing  to  take  a  kodak  pic- 
ture of  each  guest,  but  her  husband  thought  a  dimly 
lighted  room  would  seem  gloomy.  To  him  brilliant 
light  was  a  sure  indication  of  festivity,  and  although 
the  dinner  was  to  be  a  somewhat  grim  business  meet- 
ing, he  was  anxious  to  make  the  setting  as  gay  as 
possible.  "  It's  lucky  the  paper  is  shiny,"  he  said, 
"  because  if  it  wasn't,  all  the  gas  going  wouldn't  light 
it  up.  The  reflection  on  the  walls  is  pretty,  isn't 
it?" 

"Very,"  Helen  answered;  "it  brings  out  all  the 
purple  in  the  paper."  She  was  tired  and  worried. 
The  house  seemed  unusually  hideous,  and  she  dreaded 
having  Bond  see  it.  Could  he  possibly  think  kindly 
of  her  in  such  surroundings?  Would  he  not  always 
picture  her — if  he  thought  of  her  at  all — in  a  setting 
of  shiny  black  walnut  and  purple  red  walls — all  dom- 
inated by  a  dreadful  green  vase — her  own  taste,  of 
course,  since  a  woman  is  always  held  responsible  for 
her  house. 

The  first  to  arrive  was  Mr.  Jennings.  Helen  had 
grown  almost  fond  of  the  absurd  little  man.  She 
liked  his  sandy  hair  and  his  little,  twinkling  grey  eyes 
that  disappeared  when  he  laughed.  She  respected  him 
because  Henry  did,  and  most  of  all,  she  knew  him 
her  ally  with  the  busy  gossips  of  the  Park. 


HELEN  63 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  he  cried,  as  he  bustled  into  the 
room.  "  This  is  pleasant  to  see  you,  Mrs.  M.  I  hope 
you  are  going  to  eat  with  us  to  keep  the  lions  and 
the  jackals  in  order.  What?  "  It  was  amusing,  his 
increase  of  self-respect  and  assertiveness  when  parted 
from  his  wife. 

"  No,"  Helen  said,  laughing.  "  I  should  be  terri- 
fied. I  stay  decently  in  the  background,  emerging 
only  for  an  instant  to  give  you  coffee." 

"  Alas,  and  is  it  so.  I  think  I  shall  go  home — 
after  coffee — unless  I  can  persuade  you  to  take  a  turn 
in  the  Park." 

"  Never.  The  Park  has  eyes  as  well  as  ears,  and 
I  could  not  risk  your  reputation  in  your  home  pre- 
cinct." 

11  My  reputation?  Fol  de  loll  It  is  yours  that 
would  suffer  to  be  seen  abroad  with  such  a  rake  as 
me.  What?" 

Mr.  Staples,  second  vice-president  of  the  Traction 
Company,  came  next.  He  was  an  able  man  in  his 
office,  but  when  he  saw  Helen,  seemed  to  swell  visibly 
and  walked  stiffly,  as  though  the  floor  were  hot.  Her 
presence  gave  the  dinner  a  social  significance  that 
displeased  him.  He  and  his  wife  lived  in  Brookline, 
and  considered  themselves  important  factors  in  the 
social  life  of  that  suburb.  It  had  been  a  trial  for 


64  THE   GREEN   VASE 

him  to  go  to  South  Boston  at  all,  but  as  he  had  re- 
marked on  leaving  home,  "  I  am  simply  going  to  a 
business  meeting.  It  wouldn't  do,  if  any  of  the  neigh- 
bours should  drop  in,  to  say  I  was  dining  in  South 
Boston.  Of  course,  for  any  one  in  our  position,  that 
would  be  ridiculous."  As  a  result,  he  was  confused, 
being  unwilling  to  allow  these  people  to  consider  him, 
even  for  a  moment,  one  of  them,  and  at  the  same 
time  conscious  that  for  the  sake  of  the  company  he 
must  not  offend  them.  He  succeeded  in  giving  the 
impression  that  he  wanted  to  be  affable  but  did  not 
know  how,  and  he  wished  sincerely  that  he  had  in- 
sisted on  having  the  dinner  at  the  Country  Club,  of 
which  he  had  recently  been  elected  a  member,  and 
where  he  still  felt  the  sense  of  proprietorship  char- 
acteristic of  the  new  member. 

"  Your  little  park,  here,  is  very  pretty,"  he  said 
to  Helen.  "  Livin'  in  Brookline,  as  I  do,  I  have 
never  been  so  far  afield  as  this,  and  did  not  suppose 
South  Boston  had  any  such  open  spaces." 

"  It  is  a  pretty  park,"  Helen  assented,  "  but  of 
course  it  must  seem  small  to  you,  living  more  in  the 
country." 

"  Indeed  Brookline  is  not  country.  It  is  suburban, 
but  a  very  fashionable  suburb." 

Her  answering  smile  flattered  him,  while  to  an- 


HELEN  65 

other  it  would  have  shown  her  ironical  appreciation 
of  his  pompous  self-satisfaction. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you — that  is,  I  mean  people  in 
South  Boston,  have  much  opportunity  to  go  to  Brook- 
line,"  he  continued. 

"  Seldom,  Mr.  Staples,"  she  said  sweetly. 

Mr.  Jennings,  who  had  been  standing  near,  chuck- 
led. "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  stand  up  for  old  South 
Boston.  What?" 

Helen  laughed.  "  I  should  want  to  do  that,  you 
know." 

O'Leary  and  Donovan  represented  the  strikers. 
They  entered  awkwardly,  but  with  the  awkwardness 
of  limbs  accustomed  only  to  toil,  not  through  any 
feeling  that  they  were  out  of  place.  They  shook 
hands  with  her  heartily  and  with  frank  admiration  on 
their  faces,  but  she  heard  one  say  to  the  other  as 
they  turned  away,  "  I  hope  there  ain't  going  to  be 
any  women  messing  in  this.  It's  man's  business." 

Last  to  arrive  were  Stephen  Bond  and  Paul  Dun- 
bar,  the  young  attorney  for  the  company.  They,  at 
least,  were  not  ill  at  ease,  awkward  neither  by  reason 
of  untrained  limbs  nor  through  fear  of  compromising 
their  position  socially.  It  seemed  to  Helen  as  though 
in  the  moment  after  his  entrance  Stephen  completely 
fulfilled  his  own  definition  of  a  gentleman.  Clearly 


66  THE   GREEN   VASE 

the  men  liked  him — all  except,  perhaps,  Staples,  who 
was,  nevertheless,  almost  unctuous  in  his  greeting. 
She  noticed  with  amused  understanding  that  the  cor- 
dial, "  How  d'y  do,  Mr.  Staples,"  was  followed  by, 
"Very  well,  Bond,  and  you?"  Evidently  Staples 
aspired  to  a  familiarity  that  Bond  was  unwilling  to 
admit,  and  was  irritated  that  his  own  progress,  to 
which  he  held  tenaciously,  brought  no  echo.  Helen 
knew  that  the  impalpable  hint  of  reserve  behind 
Stephen's  cordiality  was  more  galling  to  Mr.  Sta- 
ples' social  vanity  than  would  be  all  the  bitter  re- 
marks to  which  she  could  so  well  have  given 
vent. 

But  the  bitterness  vanished  when  Stephen  came  up 
to  her.  "  It  is  so  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Murphy,  to 
be  here.  It  makes  an  unpleasant  meeting  a  real  pleas- 
ure." 

"  My  husband  wanted  me  to  do  it.  I  should  far 
rather  not  be  here." 

"  That's  unkind." 

"  It  sounds  rude,"  she  said  quickly,  "  and  I  did 
not  mean  it." 

He  looked  around  the  room,  and  Helen  shivered 
as  his  glance  fell  on  the  green  vase.  But  he  noticed, 
apparently,  only  the  people.  "  I  can  understand,  I 
think,"  he  said,  "  how  you  would  feel  out  of  place. 


HELEN  67 

The  strikers  are  hardly  normal  dinner  guests,  and 
Mr.  Staples,  as  you  may  have  discovered,  is  a  rather 
absurd  person." 

"  Absurd,  yes,"  she  said,  "  but  in  a  harmless  and 
amusing  way." 

He  laughed.  "  I  am  glad  you  saw  him  in  that 
light." 

"  Can  you  two  stop  to  let  us  have  dinner?  "  Henry 
broke  in,  putting  his  hand  on  Bond's  shoulder. 
"  Come,  gentlemen.  It's  time  to  feed  the  inner  man. 
It  seems  mean  to  leave  you,  Helen." 

"  How  would  it  be  to  add  her  to  our  committee," 
Stephen  said.  "  She  might  be  a  pacifying  influence — 
if  that's  needed — and  anyway,  she's  probably  as  in- 
telligent as  the  lot  of  us." 

"  We  must  not  forget  that  this  is  strictly  a  busi- 
ness meeting,"  Mr.  Staples  remarked  severely,  and 
Donovan  and  O'Leary  looked  their  relief. 

"  My  intelligence  is  certainly. sufficient  to  keep  me 
out  of  the  dining-room,"  Helen  said.  "  And  then, 
you  know,  it  would  be  quite  improper  for  me  to  be 
at  the  table  unless  Mrs.  Staples  and  Mrs.  Jennings 
were  there,  too." 

"  Impossible !  "  Staples  cried  involuntarily,  look- 
ing scornfully  at  Mr.  Jennings. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it  is."     Mr.  Jennings  grinned  his 


68  THE   GREEN   VASE 

appreciation.  "And  I  guess,  too,  that  this  matter 
can  be  settled  best  by  masculine  intelligences. 
What?  " 

The  last  thing  Helen  saw,  as  they  passed  through 
the  folding  doors  into  the  dining-room,  was  the  look 
of  repressed  amusement  in  Stephen's  face.  When 
Henry  had  closed  the  doors  after  them,  she  turned 
off  some  of  the  superfluous  gas-jets  and  then  sat  on 
the  hard  sofa  with  her  embroidery. 

The  air  was  oppressive  and  she  opened  a  window. 
Her  pride  was  hurt  by  the  undisguised  snobbery  of 
Mr.  Staples,  but,  as  she  analysed  the  pain,  she  knew 
it  came  more  from  the  fact  that  she  was  in  the  mental 
state  to  be  hurt  than  from  anything  he  had  said  or 
looked.  Why  should  she  not  ignore  him,  laugh  at 
him,  as  Stephen  would  do?  She  cared  nothing  for 
the  opinion,  adverse  or  complimentary,  of  a  middle- 
class  snob.  She  recognised,  almost  pictorially,  the 
intricate  structure  of  the  American  social  edifice,  built 
tier  upon  tier  on  the  solid  foundation  of  work,  re- 
freshingly simple  and  sturdy  at  its  base,  rising  into 
a  confused  ugliness,  and  beyond  that  into  a  more 
delicate  beauty.  Only  the  middle  portion  was  pre- 
tentious. She  saw,  as  Mr.  Staples  could  never  have 
seen,  even  had  he  had  the  imagination  to  conceive 
such  a  structure,  that  the  soaring  towers  were  not 


HELEN  69 

equally  symmetrical  nor  equally  dignified;  that  some, 
heavy  with  superfluous  ornament  masking  their  crude 
design,  were  carried  on  buttresses  flung  out  from  the 
vulgar  middle  stones ;  that  others,  sturdy,  harmonious, 
reached  upward  in  powerful  granite  lines  that  traced 
their  way  undeviating  from  the  base;  and  that  still 
others,  distant  and  glistening  white,  seemed  to  float 
against  the  sky,  supported  by  unseen  columns  that 
had  their  origin  deep  in  the  virgin  soil. 

Helen  was  calmer  as  the  vision  became  more  dis- 
tinct. She  saw  herself  the  denizen  of  one  of  the  high 
white  towers,  astray  for  the  moment,  perhaps,  but 
still  able  to  ignore  the  jeers  of  those  who  looked  out 
at  her  from  gaudy,  rococo  windows.  If  only  the 
time  might  not  be  too  long  before  she  found  her  way 
home.  Home!  She  had  never  thought  of  it  quite 
in  that  way  before,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  never 
before  thought  truth.  She  was  lost  and  she  was 
lonely.  Who  should  be  her  guide?  Stephen  Bond? 
She  shivered  slightly,  why  she  could  not  have  told. 
After  all,  he  was  hardly  more  than  an  abstract  per- 
sonality, a  citizen  of  the  high  places  who  had  acci- 
dently  crossed  her  path.  But  crossing  it  as  he  had, 
as  her  employer,  could  he  ever  think  of  her  as  his 
equal,  as  a  girl  of  his  own  class  who  had  lost  her 
way  and  wanted  to  go  home  ?  Would  he  not  rather 


70  THE    GREEN   VASE 

connect  her  aspirations  with  those  of  other  working 
girls,  as  the  lust  for  money  with  its  attendant  vulgar 
display,  or  at  best  as  the  longing  for  lazy  comfort, 
undisturbed  by  the  need  to  work,  work,  work?  Per- 
haps he  knew  of  her  origin,  of  her  father,  but  more 
probably  not.  What  he  might  know  was  of  her  un- 
cared-for childhood,  her  slatternly  home  in  Cam- 
bridge. And  knowing  this,  was  there  any  reason  why 
he  should  think  of  her  as  different  from  all  the  others? 
What  was  more,  she  was  married  to  Henry !  She  felt 
for  a  moment  an  angry  resentment  against  him  whom 
she  had  chosen  as  her  guide  for  better  or  for  worse. 
And  then  she  heard  his  voice  through  the  closed 
doors,  and  an  equally  unreasoning  tenderness  swept 
away  her  resentment.  He  was  speaking  earnestly, 
and  she  caught  a  word  now  and  then,  enough  to  know 
that  he  was  pleading  the  cause  of  the  strikers,  fight- 
ing, as  he  believed,  a  just  fight.  She  would  not  have 
had  him  different  then,  even  if  she  could  not  agree 
with  all  his  ideas,  because  he  was  proving  his  strength. 
Was  he  not  building,  block  by  block,  one  of  those 
sturdy,  symmetrical,  granite  towers,  the  dwellers  in 
which  met  on  a  proud  equality  those  in  the  others,  the 
distant  white  towers  that  gleamed  against  the  sky? 
He  was  her  husband,  and  she  knew — ah,  if  she  could 
only  have  the  courage  always  to  cling  to  the  knowl- 


HELEN  71 

edge — that  he  was  a  husband  of  whom  she  need 
never  be  ashamed. 

The  dinner  seemed  to  her  interminably  long,  but 
at  last  the  doors  opened.  Already  she  had  made 
the  coffee  and  was  ready  for  them  as  they  filed  into 
the  room.  Their  expressions  interested  her  keenly. 
O'Leary  and  Donovan  looked  surly  and  left  with 
hardly  a  word.  Henry  spoke  a  moment  with  them  at 
the  door  and  to  Stephen,  she  noticed,  they  were  cor- 
dial. To  Dunbar  they  showed  a  grudging  respect, 
and  Mr.  Staples  they  ignored  altogether. 

He  came  over  and  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  much 
to  her  surprise  and  chagrin.  "  Well,  well,  well,"  he 
said,  "  that  was  a  very  good  meetin',  quite  satisfac- 
tory. And  the  dinner  good,  too,  very  good.  I  com- 
pliment you,  madam." 

"  Thank  you.    Will  you  have  one  lump?  " 

"  Two,  please.  I  believe  you  used  to  be  in  Stuy- 
vesant  and  Bond's  office.  That's  so,  isn't  it?  I 
thought  I  remembered  seein'  you  somewhere." 

"  Yes.     I  was  there  two  years." 

"  A  good  place  to  be — Stuyvesant  and  Bond's. 
They  have  a  fine  business — in  a  conservative  way,  of 
course.  I  suppose  that's  how  you  happened  to  know 
Steve  Bond  so  well — ha?"  He  looked  at  her 
slyly. 


72  THE    GREEN   VASE 

She  turned  quickly  to  Mr.  Jennings.  "  Will  you 
come  over  here?"  she  asked,  "I  have  a  message  for 
your  wife." 

"  Oh,  if  that's  the  way  you  take  a  little  well-meant 
pleasantry "  grumbled  Mr.  Staples,  rising  awk- 
wardly. His  face  turned  slowly  to  a  dull  brick  red. 
"  I  guess  you  would  find  more  to  say  to  Mr.  Jen- 
nin's.  I  found  him  most  amusin'  at  dinner." 

Mr.  Jennings  smiled  at  him — a  peculiarly  guileless 
smile.  "  Glad  I  gave  you  a  good  time.  There's  more 
of  'em  coming,  what?  "  Then  to  Helen,  "  Has  that 
piece  of  a  circus  been  insulting  you  again?  I  reckon 
I'd  better  kick  him  out  of  the  house." 

"  He's  going  of  his  own  accord  and  Mr.  Dunbar 
with  him." 

"  Then  I'm  sorry  for  Staples.  Dunbar's  sharp  as 
a  pin,  and  I  opine  a  bad  half  hour  for  Mr.  Vice- 
President.  If  he  succeeds  in  making  such  an  all- 
around,  nicely  patterned,  verdant  ass  of  himself  many 
times,  I  can  see  walking  papers  from  the  company 
for  his.  I  don't  suppose  you  really  have  a  message 
for  Mrs.  Jennings?" 

"  Just  to  tell  her  from  me,  please,  that  you  have 
been  delightful  company  and  came  to  my  rescue  gal- 
lantly." 

"  Well,  now "     Mr.  Jennings  shook  his  head 


HELEN  73 

dubiously  and  put  his  fingers  through  his  thin  locks. 
"  I  reckon  that's  a  message  that  might  as  well  be 
kept  for  my  own  private  enjoyment,  what?  You 
see,  Mrs.  J.  has  the  reediculous  idea  that  I'm  some- 
thing of  a  lady-killer,  which  suspicions  I  shouldn't 
want  to  confirm,  and  then  she  hasn't  entirely  got 
straight  bearings  about  you  yet,  and  I  wouldn't  like 
for  her  to  get  started  on  another  tangent.  Amanda's 
a  very  good  woman — she  always  prefers  for  me  to 
say  lady — but  she  has  her  prejudices  like  all  of  us. 
Do  I  make  it  clear?  " 

Helen  laughed.  "  Oh,  quite,  Mr.  Jennings.  I 
leave  everything  to  your  discretion." 

"  That's  all  right,  then.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night." 

"  I  must  be  going,  too,  Mrs.  Murphy,"  Stephen 
said,  coming  up  to  her.  "  The  evening  has  been  in- 
tensely interesting,  even  if  not  satisfactory.  Have 
you  and  Murphy  talked  over  the  strike  at 
all?" 

"  Indeed,  yes.  Perhaps  I  don't  entirely  under- 
stand things,  but  Henry  always  talks  over  with  me 
the  problems  that  are  interesting  him.  It  is  wonder- 
ful to  think  I  am  worth  consulting,  and  I  really  am 
learning." 

"  And  teaching,  too.    A  college  instructor  once  said 


74  THE   GREEN   VASE 

to  me  that  the  only  way  really  to  learn  a  subject  was 
to  give  a  course  in  it.  So  don't  be  afraid  to  express 
your  ideas." 

"  I'm  not,"  she  responded,  smiling.  "  That  has 
never  been  one  of  my  faults.  In  fact,  I'm  always 
jumping  at  conclusions  and  expressing  them." 

"  And  quite  rightly,  if  you  have  the  courage  to 
admit  sometimes  that  you  are  mistaken.  People 
brave  enough  to  define  conclusions  that  still  need 
proof  are  the  ones  who  carry  the  world  forward. 
Now  I,"  he  added  somewhat  sadly,  "  I  am  quite  the 
other  kind.  I  shall  never  do  anything  big,  either 
bad  or  good,  because  I  spend  all  my  life  crawling 
around  questions  and  testing  the  validity  of  every 
proposition.  By  the  time  I  am  convinced  the  question 
is  no  longer  vital;  the  world  has  accepted  an  answer 
— usually  a  right  one,  too — and  has  gone  ahead  to 
new  problems." 

"  If  you  are  that  kind,  perhaps  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  you  once  in  a  while  to  lose  your  head,"  she 
said. 

He  quivered.  "  That  remark  startled  me,"  he  said 
at  last,  quite  calmly,  "  because  it  is  exactly  what  my 
friend  Philip  Moncrieff  said  to  me  last  night.  I 
wonder  what  it  means." 

"  Obviously  nothing,   I   suppose,"   she   answered, 


HELEN  75 

turning  to  him  again — "  or  else  a  great  deal,  since  it 
was  stated  by  two  quite  different  people." 

Henry,  who  had  been  talking  on  the  steps  with 
Mr.  Jennings,  came  in.  "  What  are  you  two  talking 
about?  "  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Bond  was  just  telling  me  about  the  dinner 
and  asking  whether  I  knew  anything  about  the  strike," 
Helen  answered. 

"  And  I  am  sure,  Murphy,"  Stephen  added,  "  that 
a  woman  must  give  advice  that  is  really  helpful.  I 
wish  I  could  stay  now  to  share  in  it,  but  I  must 

go." 

"  We  must  get  together  again  soon  about  this 
business,"  Henry  said.  "  To-night  was  useless,  and 
we  might  work  out  some  solution  alone — or  with 
Helen,  here.  She  sometimes  cuts  right  down  to  the 
heart  of  things." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  like  better,"  Stephen 
said.  "  Why  can't  we — why  won't  you  both  dine  with 
me  next  Wednesday  at  my  house — just  the  three  of  us. 
Would  you  accept  such  an  informal  invitation,  Mrs. 
Murphy?  It's  business,  you  know,  as  well  as  pleasure 
for  me." 

"  If  Henry  has  no  engagement,  it  would  be  de- 
lightful. But  do  you  really  want  me?  " 

"  Sure  we  do,"  Henry  asserted.    "  Between  us  we 


76  THE    GREEN   VASE 

can  construct  a  proposition  that  people  will  have  to 
assent  to." 

"  It's  settled,  then.  I  am  so  glad.  And  now  I 
really  must  go.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  and  thank  you,"  Helen  said,  giving 
him  her  hand. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  fool,  Staples,"  Henry 
said,  when  the  door  was  closed,  "  we  might  have  done 
something.  But  it's  all  in  the  day's  work.  And  noth- 
ing matters  so  long  as  I  have  you  at  the  end." 

"  No,"  Helen  assented,  resting  her  cheek  against 
his  shoulder,  "  nothing  else  really  matters." 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUNK  deep  in  the  corner  of  a  huge,  soft,  leather- 
covered  sofa,  Helen  let  her  eyes  wander  over  the 
room  and  intermittently  to  the  faces  of  the  two  men. 
Her  sensation  was  of  infinite  content  and  peace.  The 
rich  colours  of  the  books,  contrasting,  separated,  and 
at  the  same  time  brought  into  harmony  by  an  occa- 
sional volume  bound  in  warm  vellum  that  seemed  to 
have  absorbed  the  sunshine  of  its  hundred  years  of 
life;  the  severe  lines  of  the  furnishings;  the  mellow 
panels,  some  glowing  like  wrinkled  satin  in  the  light, 
others  vanishing  into  a  velvet  blackness;  everything 
softened  even  as  it  was  brought  into  being  by  the 
light  that  came,  one  hardly  knew  from  where — all 
seemed  to  her  an  expression  of  herself,  of  some  far- 
distant,  ancestral  self  that  had  never  had  a  chance 
to  live.  Her  senses  were  rested,  not  dulled.  She 
was  mentally  alert,  ready  to  answer  questions  about 
the  strike  or  to  throw  in  suggestions,  all  the  time  that 
subconsciously  she  was  drifting  back  into  a  past  which 
she  could  not  remember,  but  that  she  knew  to  be  her 
inheritance. 

'  Then  you  feel  sure,"  she  heard  Henry  say,  "  that 

77 


78  THE   GREEN   VASE 

the  company  would  agree  to  the  terms  we  have  out- 
lined?" 

"  Of  course  I  cannot  officially  answer  for  the  com- 
pany," Stephen  responded.  "  I  am  only  one  of  eleven 
directors.  But  I  feel  reasonably  certain.  I  only  wish 
I  could  be  equally  sure  that  you  can  make  the  men  see 
the  injustice  of  turning  out  those  non-union  employees 
who  have  worked  so  long  and  so  faithfully." 

;<  The  men  are  reasonable — or  were.  I  never  saw 
that  side  of  it  before.  I  guess  I  never  understood 
what  a  corporation  conscience  was.  Don't  you  think, 
Helen,  from  what  I've  told  you,  that  the  men  would 
agree  to  let  it  be  an  open  field  if  they  got  better  pay 
and  shorter  hours." 

"  The  men — yes,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  but  you 
must  count  in  the  influence  of  the  national  union  lead- 
ers who  are  in  Boston.  To  them  it  is  not  the  indi- 
vidual. It's  the  principle  at  stake.  They  may  in- 
sist." 

"  That's  exactly  where  I'm  worried,  Mrs.  Murphy. 
Human  nature  is  going  to  stand  for  the  square  deal 
every  time,  but  in  cases  like  this  human  nature  doesn't 
usually  have  a  chance  to  show  up.  Is  there  much 
theoretical  socialism  mixed  in  with  all  this  strike  agi- 
tation, do  you  think,  Murphy?  " 

"  No,  not  much,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out.     It's 


HELEN  79 

just  the  wish  to  get  cash  enough  to  feed  themselves 
decently.  Of  course  there  must  be  some  cases  of  the 
rankest  kind  of  socialism.  O'Leary,  one  of  those 
fellows  at  my  house  the  other  night,  seems  pretty 
reasonable.  He  is  the  kind  who  would  be,  and  his 
word  carries  a  lot  of  weight.  But  he  says,  just  as 
Helen  suggests,  that  the  labour  leaders  have  been 
stirring  up  trouble,  says  they  urge  the  men  to  declare 
a  strike  right  off  and  tell  them  to  make  their  own 
terms.  Confound  it!  Why  can't  they  let  us  run 
our  little  show  ourselves?" 

"  Because,  individually,  in  their  eyes,  we  don't 
count.  A  fight  for  principle  in  Boston,  even  if  un- 
successful, counts  in  San  Francisco,  and  it's  the  na- 
tional aspect  of  -the  thing  they're  looking  at." 

"  But  a  successful  fight  would  count  for  more,  and 
by  rushing  into  things  unprepared  they're  weakening 
their  chances  of  getting  what  they  ought  to  have." 

'  That  may  be  so  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
men  and  their  families — the  actual  employees  in 
whom  you  are  interested — but  not  from  that  of  the 
unions.  The  leaders  are  clever  enough  to  know  that 
they  can  best  manage  men  who  are  actually  on  strike, 
who  see  everything  magnified  through  their  passions. 
A  man  will  not  usually  do  violence  while  he  is  capable 
of  thinking  sanely,  but  once  let  passion  get  the  upper 


8o  THE    GREEN    VASE 

hand  of  sanity,  and  physical  violence  is  the  natural 
consequence." 

"  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  any  violence." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure.  A  few  cars  destroyed  or  a 
bridge  wrecked  makes  a  big  noise  from  one  end  of 
the  country  to  the  other.  Noise  is  what  they  want." 

"  But  surely,"  Helen  said,  "  notoriety  gained  in 
that  way  must  prejudice  people  against  them." 

"  So  it  does,"  Stephen  answered,  "  in  the  minds 
of  men  and  women  like  ourselves,  but  not  in  the  minds 
of  the  masses,  especially  those  in  distant  cities.  What 
they  see  is  merely  that  so  horrible  were  the  abuses  of 
the  company  that  self-respecting  men  were  compelled 
to  stand  up  for  their  rights  by  force,  persuasion  hav- 
ing failed.  There  is  a  bit  of  sneaking  sympathy  for 
the  anarchist  in  all  of  us." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Henry  interposed.  ;'  Was 
there  a  man  in  the  nation  that  didn't  curse  Czol- 
gosz?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  there  was — more  than  one.  But  that 
was  a  peculiar  case.  McKinley  stood  out  as  a  fa- 
mously good,  mild-mannered,  and  above  all,  inof- 
fensive man.  And  then  you  must  add  that  social 
unrest  in  America  has  not,  as  yet,  developed  into 
active  hatred  of  government,  but  only  of  riches,  es- 
pecially of  corporate  riches." 


HELEN  81 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  as  yet '?  "  Helen  asked. 

"  Just  what  I  say.  The  logical  result  of  social 
unrest  is  social  revolution,  unless  causes  of  grievance 
are  removed  in  time.  We  have  let  matters  slide  too 
long.  The  cry  of  our  labouring  classes  originally  was 
that  special  privileges  be  cut  away.  Now  they  have 
become  so  used  to  the  idea  of  special  privileges  that 
instead  of  equal  opportunity  they  demand  special 
privileges  for  themselves,  and,  what  is  more,  privi- 
leges more  monstrous  than  were  ever  enjoyed  by  cor- 
porations." 

"  But  this  notion  of  special  privileges,"  Henry  said, 
"  seems  to  me  dead  against  the  principles  of  social- 
ism, and  that,  I  gathered  from  things  you  said  at 
dinner,  was  growing  to  be  mighty  dangerous." 

"Isn't  it  something  like  this?"  Helen  put  in. 
"  When  people  begin  to  think  about  the  injustice  of 
society  socialism  seems  a  pretty  obvious  remedy. 
Then  they  preach  their  doctrine,  and  the  masses,  who 
have  passions,  but  not  trained  intelligence,  take  up  the 
doctrine  because  it  means  to  them  an  easy  way  to 
get  money  and  a  punishment  for  those  who  have  been 
more  successful." 

"  A  sort  of  universal  get-rich-quick  scheme," 
Henry  said. 

"  Most  young  men  who  think  go  through  the  so- 


82  THE   GREEN   VASE 

cialistic  phase,"  Stephen  answered.  "  I  did.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  wanted  to  give  away  everything 
I  had  because  it  was  inherited,  not  earned.  Even 
now  I  should  be  willing  to  give  up  this  house  and 
everything  in  it,  for  example,  if  I  was  convinced  it 
would  do  any  good.  But  I  am  not  willing  to  have 
it  taken  away  from  me  and  to  have  my  books  used  to 
light  fires." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  Helen  cried. 

"  There  we  have  it,"  Henry  said  laughing — "  the 
thing  that  will  save  the  country  from  socialism.  The 
love  of  a  woman  for  things  that  are  hers." 

Stephen  smiled.  "  How  about  the  women,  Mrs. 
Murphy?  Do  they  envy  their  neighbours?  " 

"  All  women  do,  Mr.  Bond.  I  don't  know  the 
wives  of  any  of  the  strikers,  but  I  imagine  they  are 
no  better  than  I  am — than  we  all  are." 

Stephen  laughed  out.  "  That  is  the  first  time  you 
have  descended  to  generalities.  For  what  do  you 
envy  your  neighbours,  I  wonder?  " 

"  And  the  first  time  you  have  descended  to  person- 
ality. Do  you  really  want  an  answer?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then ;  I  envy  them  the  opportunity  to  be 
entirely  themselves." 

"  That  is  enigmatic." 


HELEN  83 

"  And  will  have  to  remain  so,  I  fear.  What  one 
cannot  explain  to  oneself  is  impossible  to  explain  to 
others." 

"May  I  use  your  telephone,  Bond?"  Henry 
broke  in.  He  had  been  thoughtfully  pacing  the  room, 
paying  no  attention  to  the  conversation.  "  Some  of 
the  strikers  whom  I  know  well  are  having  a  meeting 
this  evening  where  I  can  get  them,  and  it  might  be 
a  good  scheme  to  get  them  thinking  along  the  lines 
of  what  we've  been  saying.  None  of  the  Union  lead- 
ers are  with  them." 

"  Good  idea,"  Stephen  said.  "  You  won't  make 
anything  definite,  of  course,  as  we  have  no  authority. 
My  man  will  show  you  the  telephone."  He  took  him 
to  the  door  and  then,  returning,  stood  with  an  arm 
on  the  mantel  looking  down  at  Helen.  "  You  interest 
me  even  more  than  the  strike,  I  am  afraid,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  What  you  said  a  few  minutes  ago,  that 
you  envied  the  wives  of  these  strikers  the  chance  fully 
to  express  themselves.  I  should  have  said  that  you 
very  fully  expressed  yourself — were  yourself,  might 
be  better." 

"  That  may  be  because  you  know  me  so  little.  I 
am  really  two  women  in  one — I  suppose  every  woman 
thinks  that  of  herself.  But  I  feel  it  very  sharply, 
even  though  vaguely.  One  part  of  me  is  the  natural 


84  THE   GREEN   VASE 

development  from  the  child  who  has  been  brought 
up  in  poverty,  who  has  had  to  work  for  everything, 
who  has  gained  what  little  refinement  she  has  against 
sometimes  bitter  odds.  The  other  woman — well- 
she  is  the  one  I  cannot  expain — one  who  is  sensitively 
satisfied  with  this  room,  for  example.  Perhaps  that 
will  make  it  as  clear  as  anything  I  can  say." 

"  This  is  a  very  masculine  room,  my  friends  tell 
me.  It  needs  a  woman's  hand  to  make  it  expressive." 

"  That  is  not  what  I  meant.  And  yet  just  because 
of  its  masculine  severity  it  is  even  more  satisfying. 
What  I  mean  is  that  it  does  express  that  instinctive 
refinement,  that  shuddering  away  from  anything  that 
is  ugly,  that  the  other  woman  in  me  feels  every  day. 
It  is  a  craving  that  is  seldom  satisfied,  so  to-night 
I  have  let  it  have  full  sway.  When  I  get  back  to 
the  red  walls  and  the  polished  black  walnut  and  the 
vase  with  roses  sprawling  up  it  that  Uncle  John  gave 
us — well,  then,  you  see,  the  first  part  of  me  takes  the 
helm  again." 

"  Good  God,  how  you  must  suffer!  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him.  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  must,  and  do  find  happiness,  in  order  to 
let  myself  develope.  Suffering  would  kill  the  part 
of  me  which  appreciates  the  better  things  of  life. 
My  mother  suffered.  I  don't  think  she  ever  really 


HELEN  85 

understood  as  my  father  would  have.  She  suffered 
because  she  had  lost  her  comforts,  and  she  spent  her 
life  in  querulous  complaint,  never  in  the  attempt  to 
make  a  little  go  as  far  as  it  could  be  made  to  go.  My 
father  was  not  like  that.  He  always  held  the  candle 
in  the  dark  places — so  I  have  heard,  and  so  I  believe, 
and  from  him  I  must  have  inherited  what  strength  I 
have." 

"  Go  on,"  he  cried  harshly. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  That  is  all  there  is  to  tell.  I 
am  not  usually  egotistical  and  especially  in  talking  to 
a  man  I  hardly  know." 

"  Don't  say  that.  You  do  know  me — what  little 
there  is  to  know — because  you  know,  as  I  do,  the  grip 
of  old  traditions,  old  conventions.  But  not  so  numb- 
ingly,  perhaps.  They  have  become  the  very  expres- 
sion of  myself  until  I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  left 
but  the  hard,  unyielding  surface  of  me.  I  am  too 
much  of  a  coward  ever  to  shatter  that  surface  and 
give  air  to  the  poor,  starving  kernel  of  a  real  man 
within." 

"  That  is  not  true,  because  the  picture  you  paint  is 
of  a  self-centred,  selfish,  passionless  creature,  and 
everything  you  do  disproves  it." 

"  Everything  I  do  disproves  it?  Everything  makes 
it  more  certain." 


86  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  No.  Your  courageous  interest  in  these  poor 
working  people  when  everything  should  keep  you  in 
the  ranks  of  those  who  cry  them  down ;  your  unfailing 
courtesy  to  the  girls  in  your  office;  your  including 
me  here  to-night  because  you  knew  it  would  give  me 
pleasure " 

"  Stop.  What  is  my  interest,  really,  in  these  motor- 
men  and  conductors  but  an  example  of  the  old  Bos- 
tonian's  idea  that  he  must  have  some  charity  or  some 
fad  to  keep  his  mind  broad.  Broad !  Good  heavens 
— and  every  activity  like  that  is  simply  a  sop  to  his 
self-congratulation.  And  the  girls  in  the  office! 
More  efficient  service — that  is  all,  with  perhaps  a 
gleam  of  prudish,  conventional  joy  in  the  fact  that 
scandals  don't  occur  in  the  offices  of  Stuyvesant  and 
Bond.  And  you  here  at  dinner!  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  realise  how  little  I  thought  of  your  pleasure  and 
how  much  of  my  own." 

"  Simply  because  you  are  big  enough  hearted  to 
take  greater  pleasure  in  pleasing  others  than  in  pleas- 
ing only  yourself." 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "  Rather  call  it  the  self- 
imposed  punishment  of  the  man  who  has  been  blind 
to  the  happiness  that  he  might  have  had,  and  when 
at  last  he  sees,  lies  on  the  ground  at  night  and  cries 
impotently  for  the  stars." 


HELEN  87 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  her 
voice  quivering  a  little.  "  I  have  heard  that  a  blind 
man  who  sees  at  last,  often  mistakes  a  tallow  candle 
for  a  star.  Perhaps  you  are  that  man,  Mr.  Bond. 
There  are  ignoble  things  in  life  as  inaccessible  as  the 
stars,  but  the  man  who  struggles  to  reach  them  is 
burning  the  gifts  the  gods  have  given  him,  while  the 
one  who  aspires  to  the  heavens  climbs  high." 

"  You,  too,  fight  with  the  rhetoric  of  convention." 

"  I  know  its  strength,"  she  said,  smiling;  "  and  I 
know  the  candle  is  beautiful  only  when  out  of  reach." 

'  You  are  right,"  he  said,  bowing  his  face  in  the 
hollow  of  his  arm.  "  You  are  always  right.  I  shall 
remember." 

She  looked  into  the  fire,  her  pleasure  gone,  her 
faith  in  him  broken  through  the  unwilling  revelation 
of  himself  that  was  contrary  to  his  nature.  She  took 
up  a  print  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her,  attracted 
perhaps  by  its  colour.  But  as  she  looked  at  it  care- 
lessly it  riveted  her  attention.  She  had  never  seen 
a  good  Japanese  print  before,  and  this  one  was  a  su- 
preme example.  It  was  by  Harunobu,  of  a  young 
man  and  a  girl  standing  in  a  simple  room.  Through 
a  paper  screen  one  saw  the  shadow  of  a  pine  tree. 
"This  is  real,"  she  said  tremulously. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  That  man  saw  and  ex- 


88  THE    GREEN   VASE 

pressed  the  harmony  of  life  that  we,  here,  have  lost 
sight  of." 

She  held  the  print  in  her  hand,  gazing  and  gazing 
at  it,  trying,  in  its  simple  truthfulness,  to  creep  away 
from  this  knowledge  that  had  come  to  her  so  unex- 
pectedly and  so  terrifyingly.  Here  was  none  of  the 
convention,  none  of  the  sad  complexity  of  life  that 
had  caught  her  in  its  grip.  It  stood  out  for  her  as 
representing  the  simplicity  of  truth  in  a  mass  of  lies 
— the  one  true  thing  in  the  room.  At  last  she  laid 
the  print  on  the  table,  but  it  had  burned  into  her  con- 
consciousness  so  that  she  felt  she  could  never  forget  it. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent.  Then,  as  Henry 
opened  the  door,  Helen  rose,  a  little  unsteadily,  and 
turned  to  a  bookcase.  Stephen  stood  erect  before  the 
fireplace,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  "  Well," 
he  said  quietly,  "  did  you  get  them?  " 

"  Yes,  I  got  them.  Not  very  satisfactory,  though. 
They  seem  to  be  mixed  up  with  these  visitors  who 
are  crying  for  trouble,  and  who  are  trying  to  make 
them  decide  things,  not  as  would  be  better  for  them, 
but  in  a  way  that  would  make  most  impression  out- 
side— just  as  you  said." 

"  I  hope  we  are  not  too  late.  I  only  wish  we 
could  have  got  to  work  sooner.  You  will  do  what 
you  can,  of  course,  and  so  shall  I." 


HELEN  89 

Helen  wondered  how  they  could  talk  so  calmly. 
The  last  half  hour  had  been  a  time  of  violent  read- 
justment for  her,  but  she  had  come  through  the  ordeal 
with  the  eyes  of  her  soul  seeing  more  clearly  than 
they  had  ever  seen  before.  At  first,  before  Stephen 
had  spoken,  she  had  thought  sadly  of  the  miserable 
little  shelf  of  worn  books  in  her  sitting-room  as  com- 
pared with  the  riches  beside  her;  of  her  red  walls, 
and  his  glowing  panels;  of  Mrs.  Jennings,  and  the 
ladies  who  sat  at  his  table.  Now,  she  thought  only 
of  her  husband,  and  of  Stephen.  One  she  loved,  the 
true,  fine  heart  of  him  underneath  the  common  sur- 
face. The  other  was  only  a  symbol  of  a  life  she 
longed  for.  As  a  symbol  he  counted  for  much;  as  a 
man,  for  nothing.  And  his  self-betrayal  affected  her 
curiously.  She  was  frightened,  afraid  for  an  instant 
that  he  was  the  kind  of  a  man  Henry  had  thought 
him  when  the  orchids  came.  But  now,  she  saw  him 
as  he  was.  She  recognised  the  situation  in  its  com- 
pleteness, the  man,  blinded  by  convention,  letting  slip 
the  opportunity  he  had  not  seen,  and  crying  out  after- 
ward, as  a  child  would  cry  for  a  rabbit  which,  trapped, 
he  did  not  quite  dare  to  touch,  and  which  later  darted 
through  the  long  grass  into  cover.  What  was  more, 
she  understood,  without  completely  understanding,  his 
love  for  her.  In  the  future  he  must  always  be  dif- 


90  THE   GREEN   VASE 

ferent  to  her — much  nearer  and  more  to  be  trusted, 
yet  more  to  be  kept  distant.  She  knew  that  Henry 
would  never  have  so  revealed  himself  to  another 
man's  wife,  whatever  had  been  his  feelings,  and  at 
the  same  time  knew  him  so  true  to  her  that  he  would 
not  be  tempted.  The  knowledge  thrilled  her,  and 
intensified  her  love. 

"  We  have  outstayed  our  welcome,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  them.  "Now  that  you  and  Henry  have  hit 
on  a  solution — that  satisfies  you,  at  least,"  she  added, 
as  she  saw  his  gesture  of  dissent — "we  really  must 
go.  Our  carriage  came  long  ago." 

"  It  can  wait.  We  have  much  more  to  say — all 
of  us — and  you  ought  to  pity  a  lonely  bachelor. 
Since  you  have  been  here,  Mrs.  Murphy,  the  room 
has  seemed  again  like  a  refuge — as  it  did  when  my 
mother  was  alive." 

"  But  even  for  that,"  Henry  said,  taking  his  wife's 
arm,  "  we  cannot  stay  forever,  you  know.  And  it's 
late  enough  now,  in  all  conscience.  I'm  beginning 
to  have  an  uneasy  feeling  already,  that  my  wife  be- 
longs here  instead  of  in  South  Boston." 

"  In  a  way  she  does,"  Stephen  said,  not  looking 
at  Helen.  "  Not  here  in  this  house,  perhaps,  but 
among  her  own  people,  her  own  kind.  Think  of  the 
people  she  must  have  to  associate  with  while  you  are 


HELEN  91 

away.  We  men  are  thoughtless  creatures.  We  go 
daily  into  the  world  and  meet  all  kinds,  and  our 
women  must  stay  at  home,  alone,  or  with  the  people 
who  live  near  at  hand.  That's  what  I  mean.  I  don't 
know  her,  but  I  don't  believe  the  wife  of  that  pol- 
itician, Jennings,  is  Mrs.  Murphy's  kind." 

Henry  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  He  felt  that 
Stephen  was  "  butting  in,"  as  he  would  put  it  later 
to  Helen,  but  at  the  same  time  he  felt  the  basis  of 
truth  in  what  he  had  said.  Finally  he  fell  back  on 
the  old  argument.  "  But  we're  not  swells,  you  know. 
I'm  just  a  plain  South  Boston  politician — not  even 
rich — and  my  wife  must  take  her  chances  along  with 
me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Stephen  said  quickly.  "  That  is 
contrary  to  the  whole  trend  of  American  life.  It 
may  be  true  in  Turkey,  or  even  in  Germany.  Here 
the  woman  must  strive  to  rise  in  her  way  as  the  man 
does  in  his.  There  is  nothing  more  un-American  nor 
more  cowardly,  it  seems  to  me,  than  the  idea  that 
whatever  is,  is  right.  Our  motto  is  rather  to  keep 
pace  with  opportunity." 

'You  mean  she  ought  to  rise  socially?"  Henry 
asked.  "  But  why  is  a  woman  better  off  dangling 
onto  the  gilded  skirts  of  what  you  call  society  than 
she  is  among  men  and  women  of  her  own  station?  " 


92  THE    GREEN   VASE 

"  Why  it  should  be  so  is  hard  to  answer.  Per- 
haps because  we  have  no  fixed  station.  But  facts 
speak  for  themselves,  and  I  am  not  talking  of  the 
scandals  and  the  divorces  and  the  drinking  and  the 
gambling.  I  mean  the  great  class  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen who  meet  for  pleasure  on  terms  of  intellectual 
and  social  equality,  people  who,  after  dinner,  can 
talk,  and  don't  need  to  be  entertained  by  parlour 
tricks  and  charades.  For  the  men,  too,  Mur- 
phy— it  is  almost  invariably  among  such  people 
that  you  find  the  really  important  men  in  public 
life." 

"You  wouldn't  call  Jennings  really  important? 
He  has  tremendous  influence  and  has  done  a  lot  to 
clean  up  politics." 

"  No.  He  is  a  good  man  whose  vision  does  not 
extend  an  inch  beyond  South  Boston.  You  do  not 
want  to  confine  yourself  to  that." 

Helen  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Spriggs  ap- 
peared. "  Mr.  Moncrieff,  sir.  Shall  I  ask  him  to 
wait?  " 

"  No.    Tell  him  to  come  up." 

"  Then  we  may  really  go,"  Helen  said,  smiling 
at  him.  "  Your  little  sermon  is  over  and  you  have 
not  even  the  excuse  of  loneliness." 


HELEN  93 

"  But  wait  just  a  minute.  I  want  you  to  meet 
Moncrieff.  He  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends,  and  is 
seldom  in  Boston." 

As  he  was  speaking  they  saw  Moncrieff  run  up  the 
stairs  two  steps  at  a  time.  "  Hello,  old  chap,"  he 
cried,  not  seeing  that  any  one  else  was  in  the  room, 
"  lost  your  head  yet?  " 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  friends,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Murphy,  who  have  been  dining  here." 

Moncrieff  turned  to  them  quickly.  "  By  Jove,"  he 
said,  shaking  hands,  "  I'm  awfully  sorry  I  bounded 
into  the  room  that  way,  and  awfully  glad  I  didn't 
scare  you  out." 

Helen  looked  at  him  and  then  at  Stephen.  This, 
then,  was  the  friend  who  had  also  advised  him  to 
lose  his  head.  She  blushed  because  she  felt  the 
chance  remark  as  an  unconscious  thread  between  them, 
and  because  she  knew  that  Stephen,  also,  was  think- 
ing of  it.  "  We  were  just  going,  Mr.  Moncrieff,  so 
you  could  not  have  frightened  us  away." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  he  said.  "That  would  be  too  bad. 
Steve  told  me  about  you  both  the  other  night,  and 
I  want  to  know  you." 

"  I  guess  it'll  have  to  be  through  Bond,  then," 
Henry  put  in.  "  Our  carriage  will  go  off  without  us 
or  else  the  driver'll  charge  us  an  unholy  fee.  Good- 


94  THE   GREEN   VASE 

night,  Bond.  We'll  get  together  again  when  I've 
seen  the  men." 

"  Make  it  another  dinner  here.  Will  you  do  that, 
Mrs.  Murphy?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  Helen  answered.  "  Next  time  you 
must  come  to  us.  Will  you?"  For  the  last  time  her 
eyes  strayed  to  the  Japanese  print  as  though  she 
wanted  to  take  with  her  the  memory  only  of  that  true, 
simple  fact. 

"  Of  course  I  will.    Good-night." 

When  Stephen  came  back  to  the  library,  Mon- 
crieff  was  stretched  out  on  the  sofa,  a  Scotch  and 
soda  on  the  table  beside  him.  "  I've  made  my- 
self comfortable,  Steve.  Was  that  the  woman? 
She's  a  ripper  for  looks — hair  and  eyes  good 
enough  to  bowl  any  fellow  over.  Nose  a  little 
inadequate,  I  thought.  How'd  they  happen  to  be 
here?" 

"  Probably  because  I  invited  them,"  Stephen  an- 
swered, a  little  stiffly.  "  Murphy  is  one  of  the  best 
fellows  I  know." 

"  Yes,  of  course  he  is.  You'd  have  him  here  often 
if  it  wasn't  for  his  wife.  He's  just  your  sort,  I 
should  think.  Why  don't  you  put  him  up  for  the 
Club?" 

"  It  strikes  me  that  you're  just  a  little  bit  drunk, 


HELEN  95 

Phil."  Stephen  was  lighting  his  pipe  and  his  fingers 
trembled  with  irritation. 

"Drunk?  I'm  as  sober  as  a  corpse  at  its  own 
funeral.  Drat  it,  man,  don't  be  a  prig.  You've 
known  me  too  long  to  pretend.  If  a  friend  of  mine 
wants  to  make  an  ass  of  himself  about  a  pretty  woman 
I'm  not  going  to  stand  in  his  way." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Phil,  drop  that  nonsense.  I 
like  Mrs.  Murphy.  She's  one  of  the  most  charming 
and  thoroughly  civilised  women  I  know.  I  shall  see 
what  I  can  of  her,  and  I  am  neither  a  prig  nor  a 
cad." 

"  Of  course  not.  There  is  no  reason  on  earth  why 
you  should  not  have  an  innocent  flirtation  with  the 
wife  of  a  South  Boston  politician — a  girl  who  used 
to  be  in  your  office.  Everybody  will  understand  per- 
fectly that  it  is  quite  aboveboard.  Let's  talk  about 
something  else." 

Stephen  turned  abruptly,  and  stood,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  looking  down  at  Moncrieff.  "  I  think  I 
must  have  lost  my  head,"  he  said  slowly,  "  or  my 
senses.  Of  course  the  world  would  be  cynical.  And, 
O  Lord,  what  an  intolerable  position  for  her  I" 

Moncrieff  looked  back  at  him,  a  smile  just  twist- 
ing the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Finally  he  took  up  his 
glass  of  Scotch.  "  Here's  luck,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   VII 

"  I'M  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Jennings,  president  of  the 
South  Boston  Thursday  Morning  Ladies'  Intellectual 
Improvement  Society,  as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and 
rapped  by  force  of  habit  on  the  table  at  her  side — 
"  I'm  sure  that  we  have  all  profited  greatly  by  the 
talk  Miss  Barnes  has  so  kindly  treated  us  to.  This 
subject  of  Gothic  Architecture  in  England  and  France 
is  very  important,  and  one  that  we  have  long  felt  the 
need  of  knowing  more  about.  Now,  when  we  make 
little  trips  to  Europe  again  "  —Mrs.  Jennings  had 
been  on  a  two  months'  personally  conducted  tour  some 
time  before  she  was  married — "  we  will  be  able  to 
understand  why  the  cathedrals  are  beautiful.  I  know 
you  all  want  to  exhibit  your  gratification  to  our  kind 
lecturer  by  a  vote.  Will  some  one  make  a  motion? 
Thank  you,  Mrs.  Fritch,  that  was  very  well  put. 
Now  will  every  one  that  is  in  favour  of  Mrs.  Fritch's 
motion  please  say  '  Aye.'  Contrary  minded,  '  No.' 
It  is  a  vote.  The  secretary  will  please  inscribe  the 
vote  on  the  records  of  the  society."  The  ladies  all 
said  that  Mrs.  Jennings  must  have  learned  from  her 

husband  how  to  preside  so  emphatically  and  without 

96 


HELEN  97 

waste  of  time.  A  few  even  hinted  that  her  haste  pre- 
vented any  dissent  from  her  views,  but  these  were  the 
insurgents  whose  husbands  did  not  like  Mr.  Jennings' 
political  control.  "  And  now,"  Mrs.  Jennings  con- 
tinued, adjusting  her  glasses  and  unfolding  a  slip  of 
paper,  "  I  am  pleased  to  say  that  at  our  next  meeting, 
on  Thursday  the  i4th,  we  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  listening  to  Mrs.  Solway,  who  will  talk  to  us  on 
'  How  to  force  tulips  so  they  will  come  into  bloom 
before  Easter.'  You  all  know  that  Mrs.  Solway  won 
the  fourth  prize  for  kitchen-forced  tulips  at  the  South 
Boston  flower-show  last  March,  so  you  will  all  await 
her  words  with  eager  interest.  The  meeting  is  now 
open  to  general  discussion."  She  sat  down,  folded  the 
slip  of  paper  precisely,  and  put  it  in  her  bag.  Then 
she  looked  expectantly  around  the  room.  Through 
the  windows  came  the  indignant  shrieks  of  a  child, 
and  one  of  the  mothers  made  a  hasty  exit.  At 
last  the  silence  was  broken,  and  Mrs.  Jennings' 
face  darkened  as  she  saw  the  speaker  rise  to  her 
feet.  Mrs.  Smythe  was  not  a  favourite  with  the 
Club. 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  the  lady  remarked  belliger- 
ently, "  that  in  these  stirring  times  there  are  more 
important  matters  to  discuss  than  Rheims — she  called 
it '  Reems  ' — Cathedral  and  kitchen  tulips.  Just  now, 


98  THE   GREEN   VASE 

when  the  city  is  topsy-turvy  with  strikes  and  when 
we  ladies  hardly  dare  to  go  to  Boston  in  the  cars, 
and  when,  I  might  say,  we  go  in  fear  of  our  lives 
when  we  open  our  front  doors,  it  does  appear  to  me 
that  we  are  not  fulfilling  our  mission  as  the  helpmates 
of  our  husbands,  to  be  setting  here  listening  to  pretty 
little  talks  about  bulbs  and  churches.  Those  are  my 
sentiments,  and  I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  hold 
them." 

"  You  certainly  have,"  responded  Mrs.  Jennings, 
her  voice  quivering  with  anger.  '  This  is  a  free 
country,  as  I've  had  occasion  to  remark  many  times. 
But  the  South  Boston  Ladies'  Thursday  Morning  So- 
ciety is  not  a  political  organisation  nor  any  more  is 
it  a  woman's  rights  club.  As  I  understand  it,  we  meet 
for  intellectual  improvement."  There  was  vigorous 
nodding  from  some  of  the  company,  a  little  less  em- 
phatic shaking  of  heads  from  others. 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  Mrs.  Smythe  retorted,  "  that 
this  Society  would  accomplish  more  on  that  line  even, 
if  it  was  more  up  to  date." 

"  I  don't  know  what  our  sister  means  by  that," 
some  one  put  in.  "  The  French  churches  still  stand 
and  I  was  looking  over  a  tulip  catalogue  just  this 
morning." 

"  But  the  churches  and  the  tulips  we  will  always 


HELEN  99 

have,  and  the  strike,  I  hope,  we  sha'n't,"  said  Mrs. 
Smythe. 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  the  president.  "  We  meet 
together  to  discuss  things  that  are  lasting,  not  things 
of  the  moment  that  are  to-morrow  cast  into  the  fire 
and  consumed." 

"  But,  Mrs.  President,"  said  a  new  voice  from  the 
back  of  the  room,  "  these  strikes  are,  after  all,  mat- 
ters which  are  moulding  our  national  life.  To  under- 
stand the  forces  that  are  making  our  country  what  it 
is  should  be  a  very  important  part  of  our  intellectual 
equipment." 

There  was  a  general  craning  of  necks  and  twisting 
in  chairs,  and  thirty  pairs  of  eyes  were  focussed  on 
Helen.  She  looked  back  at  them  calmly,  with  com- 
plete self-possession,  yet  not  defiantly.  Almost  every 
one  felt  that  she  had  spoken  well  and  without  undue 
self-assertion,  yet  almost  all  were  annoyed  that  she 
had  spoken  at  all.  She  was  the  latest  member,  and 
she  had  not  yet  been  tried  according  to  the  various 
standards  of  the  Park.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Jennings  felt 
it  most  keenly.  Had  she  not,  after  a  talk  with  her 
husband,  in  which  he  had  expressed  himself  more 
forcibly  than  was  his  custom,  taken  Helen  under  her 
special  protection?  Had  she  not  even  abased  her 
pride  by  telling  a  new  and  much  more  kindly — she 


ioo  THE   GREEN   VASE 

would  hardly  have  admitted  truer — version  of  the 
orchid  story?  Had  she  not  finally  made  it  a  personal 
matter  to  get  her  elected  to  the  Society?  Certainly 
it  seemed  to  her  base  ingratitude  that  Helen,  the  first 
time  she  spoke,  should  take  a  stand  against  her,  ally- 
ing herself  moreover  with  that  dreadful  Mrs.  Smythe. 
But  Mrs.  Jennings  tried  to  be  fair.  She  knew  that 
Helen  had  never  met  Mrs.  Smythe,  probably  had 
never  heard  of  her.  What  was  more,  the  question  at 
issue  had  in  her  mind  no  importance  aside  from  Mrs. 
Smythe's  championship.  She  therefore  determined 
to  be  magnanimous. 

"  What  you  say,  Mrs.  Murphy,"  she  answered, 
after  a  moment  of  ominous  silence,  "  sounds  reason- 
able. Of  course,  it  does  seem  to  me  that  we  can 
learn  about  all  we  want  to  know  about  the  strike 
from  the  papers,  but  then,  if  anybody's  got  anything 
to  add,  why,  I  don't  know  but  as  we'd  be  willing  to 
listen.  What's  more,  I  feel  constrained  to  add  on 
second  thoughts,  I  don't  see  exactly  what  a  local 
strike's  got  to  do  with  national  development.  Per- 
haps you  can  tell  us  that  right  now." 

"  I  am  hardly  prepared  to  give  any  very  illuminat- 
ing views  at  a  moment's  notice,"  Helen  said,  smiling, 
"  even  if  I  ever  could.  It  seems  to  me,  however,  that 
the  strike  is  a  symptom  of  the  national  unrest.  Every 


HELEN  101 

clash  between  labour  and  capital  sets  our  knowledge 
of  conditions  one  step  ahead,  and  at  the  same  time 
makes  the  situation  more  complex  and  difficult  of  a 
satisfactory  conclusion.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk 
about  it.  I  want  to  hear  some  one  who  is  really  well 
informed." 

"  I  guess  you  know  more  than  any  of  us,"  Mrs. 
Jennings  said.  "  My  husband  tells  me  you're  one  of 
a  self-appointed  sub-committee  with  Mr.  Murphy 
and  that  Mr.  Bond  to  settle  the  thing  sub  rosa." 

'  They  are  very  good  to  let  me  listen,"  she  an- 
swered, blushing  in  spite  of  herself  as  she  caught  the 
furtive  glances  of  understanding  that  passed 
from  woman  to  woman.  "  I  am  learning  a  great 
deal." 

"  Couldn't  you  tell  us  what  you  have  learned  next 
Thursday?"  Mrs.  Jennings  continued.  "We  don't 
have  meetings  every  Thursday,  as  a  general  rule,  in 
summer,  but  as  you  say,  the  question  is  very  agitating 
just  at  present  and  might  not  be  at  one  of  our  regular 
dates — I  am  sure,  ladies,  you  could  not  think  of  dis- 
appointing Mrs.  Solway  two  weeks  from  to-day — 
and  that  would  make  it  a  month.  All  in  favour  of 
having  an  extra  session  next  week  to  hear  Mrs.  Mur- 
phy talk  on  the  strike  signify  it  by  saying  '  Aye.' 
Contrary  minded,  '  No.'  It  is  a  vote." 


102  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  But,"  Helen  cried.  "  I  can't  make  a  speech,  and 
as  I  told  you,  I  want  to  learn  myself." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Mrs.  Jennings  said.  "  You  ought 
to  have  spoken  sooner.  It's  a  vote  now,  and  a  vote's 
a  vote,  just  as  a  law's  a  law.  You'll  just  have  to 
do  your  best." 

"  But  could  we  not  get  some  man  who  really 
knows?  " 

"  Some  man!  Well,  it's  pretty  clear  that  you 
haven't  been  in  this  Society  very  long.  A  man,  in- 
deed! We  believe  that  women  are  just  as  able  to 
talk  and  think  as  men,  and  we  voted  long  ago  never 
to  listen  to  a  man  after  one  we  asked  refused  to  come. 
Ladies,  the  meeting  is  over.  Before  disbanding,  shall 
we  sing  our  usual  hymn?  "  She  began  beating  time, 
and  then  burst  out  shrilly  with  the  words,  "  Blessed 
be  the  tie  that  binds  our  hearts  in  Christian  love." 

Helen  joined  her  as  they  went  down  the  steps  into 
the  hot  June  sunshine.  "  Really,  Mrs.  Jennings,  how 
can  I  speak  next  week?  I  have  never  done  such  a 
thing." 

"  Then  the  sooner  you  begin  the  better,  my  dear. 
I  advise  you  to  write  it  all  down  and  then  you  won't 
forget.  Of  course,  when  you  have  talked  in  public 
as  much  as  I  have  you  won't  find  that  necessary,  but 


HELEN  103 

you're  young  yet  and  haven't  had  much  experience, 
and  I  presume  the  words  don't  always  come  easy. 
Now,  I  went  to  a  Sunday  school  where  the  scholars 
all  had  to  get  up  and  recite  Bible  verses,  and  it  gave 
me  confidence  on  my  feet.  Did  you  have  to  do 
that?" 

"  I  never  went  to  Sunday  school." 

"  Never  went  to  Sunday  school !  Well,  I  must 
remark!  Your  mother  must  have  been  a  peculiar 


woman." 


"  She  was  not  well,  Mrs.  Jennings,  and  on  Sun- 
days she  needed  me  at  home.  About  next  Thursday 
— what  made  you  think  I  could  talk?  " 

"  I  didn't." 

Helen  looked  at  her  quickly.  "  You  didn't.  Then 
why  do  you  make  me?  " 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Jennings  answered  slowly,  "  I  guess 
I  did  it  to  give  you  your  chance.  You  see,  it's  just 
this  way.  When  you  first  came  here,  I  made  a  mis- 
take about  you.  I  thought  you  were  different  and 
uppish,  somehow.  I  guess  you  sort  of  riled  me,  too. 
I  thought  you  were  putting  on  airs,  and  I  couldn't 
see  where  you  had  any  occasion  to.  All  that  made 
me  mad.  I  told  one  or  two  of  the  neighbours  about 
the  orchids,  and  they  spread  the  story  in  a  mean, 
gossipping  sort  of  way  until  all  South  Boston — that 


104  THE    GREEN   VASE 

is,  all  the  Park  and  Mrs.  Davenant  of  K  Street  and 
a  few  others — was  talking  about  it.  And  then  the 
minister  of  our  church — I  really  wish  you  went  there, 
Mrs.  Murphy,  he  preaches  such  edifying  sermons — 
well,  he  preached  on  that  text  about  how  some  people 
have  tongues  that  are  sharper  than  a  serpent's  teeth 
and  made  me  feel  how  mean  and  unchristian-like  the 
other  ladies  of  the  Park  were,  so  that  I  felt  ashamed 
of  them.  And  then,  that  very  evening  Abraham 
asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  use  my  influence — I  really  do 
have  a  great  deal,  if  I  do  say  it  as  shouldn't — to  stop 
the  talk.  He  said  it  was  very  necessary,  because  if 
I  didn't  he  would  lose  Murphy,  who  he  thinks  is  a 
great  help  to  him  in  politics.  So  I  went  around  and 
told  the  ladies  what  I  thought  of  them.  I  knew  it 
was  the  right  thing  to  do." 

"Thank  you.    What  then?" 

"  Well,  then  things  were  quieting  down  all  peace- 
ful until  you  had  Mr.  Bond  to  dinner." 

"  It  was  to  discuss  the  strike." 

"  Yes,  so  Mr.  J.  told  me  when  I  remarked  about  it 
to  him,  but  it  did  set  folks  to  talking  again." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  helped.  Henry  finds  Mr. 
Bond  too  good  a  man  to  work  with  to  throw  him 
over  on  account  of  silly  gossip." 

"  Of  course  I  don't  know  about  it's  being  all  silly 


HELEN  105 

gossip,  but  it  was  dying  out  until  Mrs.  Salsbury  saw 
you  talking  with  a  man  she  thought  must  be  Mr. 
Bond  on  Washington  Street  last  Monday  morning. 
That  naturally  makes  things  worse  than  ever." 

"  I  was  talking  with  him.  We  met  Henry  later 
and  had  luncheon  together.  But  what  has  all  this  to 
do  with  next  Thursday?  " 

"  Just  this.  I  don't  believe  there  is  much  of  any- 
thing in  all  the  stories  I  hear.  So  you  see,  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  if  you  talked  to  them  it  would  make 
the  ladies  see  you  different  and  give  them  something 
else  to  think  about." 

"  But  won't  they  think  merely  that  all  I  tell  them 
I  got  from  Mr.  Bond?" 

"  Maybe.  It's  a  risk,  but  a  risk  worth  running. 
It  gives  you  a  chance  to  get  on  the  right  side  of  folks, 
and  I  hope  you'll  take  it." 

"  I  shall  at  least  try,"  Helen  said,  "  and  I  thank 
you,  now  that  I  understand.  This  is  your  house,  and 
I  must  hurry  home.  Good-bye." 

Life  seemed  to  Helen  just  then  to  be  a  tangle  of 
contradictions.  Mrs.  Jennings,  who  did  not  like  her, 
was  acting  openly  as  her  champion  because  Henry  was 
politically  useful  to  Mr.  Jennings;  she  was  doing 
her  best  to  further  Henry's  ambitions,  and  those  am- 
bitions seemed  to  her  unworthy  of  consideration;  she 


io6  THE   GREEN   VASE 

was  seeing  more  and  more  of  Stephen  Bond,  almost 
always  through  her  husband's  wish,  and  yet  every 
time  she  saw  him  she  knew  that  through  the  growing 
distrust  of  her  it  made  Henry's  position  in  South 
Boston  more  insecure;  and  finally,  that  being  with 
Stephen  was  cruel  to  him,  since  each  meeting  made 
his  hopeless  love  for  her  more  violent,  even  as  the 
fact  lessened  her  respect  for  him.  And  yet  she  clung 
to  him  as  the  only  link  which  connected  the  life  she 
led  with  the  life  she  longed  to  lead.  With  a  little 
gesture  of  despair  she  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside 
the  fountain  and  watched  the  swarms  of  children 
splashing  each  other  as  they  waded  in  the  huge  stone 
basin.  She  had  been  there  only  a  minute,  it  seemed, 
when  she  was  startled  by  a  voice  at  her  side.  "  What 
luck,  Mrs.  Murphy.  May  I  sit  down?  I  had  no 
idea  of  finding  a  friend  here." 

"  Mr.  Moncrieff,"  she  cried,  "  you  in  South 
Boston!  I  can't  imagine  what  should  bring  you 
here." 

"  Quite  a  commonplace  reason,  I  assure  you.  To 
be  accurate,  the  heat." 

"  The  heat.  That  should  be  a  reason  to  keep  any 
one  away." 

"  On  the  contrary.  Your  ocean  is  always  cold  and 
there  are  no  sea-baths  in  Boston,"  He  took  off  his 


HELEN  107 

straw  hat  and  laid  it  on  the  bench  beside  him.  "  Do 
you  mind  if  I  smoke?  " 

"  Not  at  all."  But  as  she  answered  she  wondered 
whether  Stephen  would  have  done  it,  whether  this 
man  would  have,  if  he  had  thought  her  one  of  his 
own  kind. 

"  You've  seen  a  good  bit  of  Steve  lately,  so  he  tells 
me,"  he  said,  when  he  had  lighted  his  cigarette. 

"  Yes,  we  have  met  several  times.  He  and  my 
husband  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the 
strike  and  they  are  good  enough  to  let  me  listen." 
She  was  angry  with  herself  for  saying  it.  She  was 
tired  of  the  phrase  and  suddenly  angry  at  the  need 
to  justify  herself.  Why  was  her  right  to  see  him  less 
than  the  right  of  any  other  self-respecting  woman. 
Yet  she  had  excused  herself  to  Mrs.  Jennings  and 
again  to  this  man.  "  I  always  enjoy  being  with  him," 
she  added  hastily,  "  because  I  Lke  him  very  much." 

"  He  is  an  attractive  chap — curious  one,  too.  He's 
hard  to  make  out  entirely,  so  deucedly  reserved  and 
calm.  One  can't  quite  imagine  his  '  slipping  his 
trolley,'  as  you  say  over  here,  and  yet  he  has  it  in 
him  to  do  something  startling." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Nothing  specific.  I  was  thinking  of  his  char- 
acter. He  feels  things  just  as  keenly  as  you  and  I 


io8  THE   GREEN   VASE 

do,  a  bit  more  keenly,  I  think,  sometimes,  but  he 
has  his  own  practice  of  years  and  the  practice  of 
generations  back  of  him  not  to  show  it.  He  would 
meet  crisis  after  crisis  and  you'd  never  know  any- 
thing more  important  was  happening  than  the  ringing 
of  church  bells.  He'd  go  through  a  financial  panic 
without  a  quiver  and  would  hold  onto  his  property 
when  other  people  would  think  the  bottom  of  the 
world  had  dropped  out.  Repression,  subordination 
of  life  to  reason — that's  the  keynote  of  the  man." 

"  Why,  isn't  all  that  very  fine?  " 

"  It  is — Lord,  what  a  noise  those  children  make ! 
It  is,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  it's  all  pure  intellect.  In 
that  way  it's  like  the  Unitarian  religion,  capable  of 
satisfying  to  a  certain  point  and  to  meet  a  good  many 
crises,  but  not  all.  It  fails  at  the  most  critical  mo- 
ment because  it  discounts  the  emotions,  and  they're 
just  as  true,  if  not  truer,  than  the  brain.  Steve  doesn't 
realise  yet  that  passion  has  a  quite  silly  and  quite 
outrageously  thorough  way  of  demolishing  beautiful 
theories." 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"  I  do  generalise  a  bit  too  much.  It's  a  bad  habit 
I  have  fallen  into.  To  be  more  specific,  then.  Sup- 
pose Steve  should  fall  in  love."  She  looked  at  him 
involuntarily,  but  he  was  staring  at  the  fountain  and 


HELEN  109 

apparently  thinking  aloud.  "  Suppose  he  should  fall 
in  love,  I  mean,  with  a  quite  impossible  person,  some 
one  not  of  his  own  class,  or  married.  He  would 
hold  onto  himself,  of  course,  and  bubble  and  boil 
inside,  and  have  a  great  deal  to  say  about  platonic 
friendship — oh,  I've  heard  him  discourse  on  that  silly 
subject  until  I'm  sick  to  death  of  it — and  he'd  go  on 
seeing  the  bright  star  of  his  adoration,  his  love  be- 
coming all  the  time  worse  and  worse  and  all  the  time 
more  easily  to  be  explained  by  that  infallible  reason 
of  his,  and  then,  inevitably,  there  would  come  a  time 
when  the  dikes  would  break  and  reason — well,  it 
would  be  just  a  bobbing  cork  on  a  rushing  river.  It's 
not  only  his  own  passion  but  that  of  all  his  ancestors 
that  would  get  loose,  remember." 

"  That  sounds  rather  fantastic  to  me,"  Helen  said, 
"  and  even  if  it  is  not,  why  borrow  trouble  ?  He  must 
see  too  many  girls  of  his  own  class  to  go  hunting  for 
one  in  the  wilds." 

"Ah!  but  the  girls  have  mothers,  and  old  Steve 
is  rich  and  much  to  be  desired.  The  result  is  attempt 
at  coercion,  and  from  that  Stephen  flies.  Besides,  one 
does  not  go  to  the  wilds  hunting  for  Love.  One 
finds  it  by  the  wayside." 

"  And  there  you  are  afraid  Mr.  Bond  will  find 
it?" 


no  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  Or  has  found  it,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  directly 
until  she  felt  the  hot  red  staining  her  neck  and  face. 

"  If  that  is  so,"  she  answered,  returning  his  look 
bravely,  "  we  must  trust,  for  his  sake,  that  the  woman, 
if  unmarried,  will  remember  that  she,  too,  has  duties 
to  society,  and  if  married,  is  as  truly  in  love  with  her 
husband  as  I  am  with  mine." 

Moncrieff  turned  toward  her  and  made  a  motion 
as  though  to  take  her  hand.  His  face  expressed  de- 
lighted surprise.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that 
Stephen  is  blessed  with  very  good  friends — with  two, 
at  least,  who  really  want  the  best  for  him.  I  did  not 
realise,  Mrs.  Murphy,  that  you  would  be  so  quick  to 
see.  I  thought " 

"  It  really  does  not  matter  what  you  thought,  Mr. 
Moncrieff.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to  depart 
from  the  impersonal." 

He  tossed  his  cigarette  into  the  fountain.  "  You 
are  right.  Steve  told  me  you  usually  were.  Should 
you  be  willing  to  add  me  to  your  list  of  friends?  " 

She  stood  up  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Be- 
cause you  have  done  an  unpleasant  thing  as  pleasantly 
as  you  could — yes.  In  the  future,  however,  let  us 
discuss  something  quite  impersonal,  labour  and  cap- 
ital, for  example.  No  woman  could  forgive  distrust 
more  than  once." 


HELEN  in 

"  Distrust?     Is  that  quite  fair?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  A  stronger 
word  might  have  been  more  appropriate.  You  made 
mentally  a  class  generalisation,  and  I  fitted  into  it." 

'  You  see  through  me,"  he  admitted  contritely, 
"  and  yet  you  forgive.  You  are  generous.  But  my 
mistake  was  broader  than  you  think.  I  had  put  you 
in  the  wrong  class." 

"  Perhaps.  I  hope  so,  but  I  fear  that  you  still  have 
not  sounded  the  depths  of  your  error.  In  America 
you  cannot  generalise  as  to  classes  at  all.  The  ex- 
ceptions are  as  numerous  as  the  type." 

Suddenly  she  became  conscious  that  a  half-dozen 
dirty  and  very  wet  little  children  were  grouped  about 
them,  looking  up  at  them  wonderingly,  and  at  the 
same  time  heard  a  shrill  voice  from  the  fountain: 
"  Hi !  Look  at  lovers  holding  hands !  "  She 
snatched  her  hand  away  from  his.  It  must  have 
been  a  ridiculous  picture,  the  two  of  them  standing 
there  in  the  sunlight  with  clasped  hands ;  yet  so  intent 
had  she  been  on  what  they  were  saying  that  she  had 
not  realised  he  was  touching  her.  Then  another 
scornful  childish  voice  piped  up.  "  Naw.  Them's 
no  lovers.  She's  the  new  lady  what  lives  at  eight 
nineteen." 

And  then  to  complete  her  embarrassment  Mrs. 


ii2  THE   GREEN  VASE 

Jennings  strode  into  the  circle.  "  Get  away,  you 
dirty  children,"  she  cried.  "  It's  high  time  you  all 
went  home  to  dinner,"  and  then,  with  exaggerated 
surprise,  "  Well,  for  the  land  sakes,  Mrs.  Murphy. 
If  this  isn't  you !  And  I  thought  you  was  hurrying 
home  to  dinner  a  good  half-hour  ago.  But  of 
course  " — and  she  turned  with  a  smile  toward  Mon- 
crieff— "  of  course  I  know  that  if  a  lady  meets  a 
gentleman  she  must  stop  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
him.  Perhaps  you  will  introduce  me  to  Mr.  Bond." 

Helen  felt  her  face  burning.  She  did  not  dare 
look  at  Moncrieff.  "  I  am  afraid  you  have  made  a 
mistake,  Mrs.  Jennings.  This  is  Mr.  Moncrieff." 

"  Mr.  Moncrieff?  "  She  looked  in  amazement  at 
first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"  Moncrieff  is  my  name,  and  I  am  honoured  to  meet 
you,  Mrs.  Jennings,"  he  said  quietly.  Then  he 
looked  with  deep  questioning  at  Helen,  but  her  eyes 
were  hidden  from  him. 

*For  a  full  minute  Mrs.  Jennings  was  silent,  while 
her  face  grew  more  and  more  threatening.  Mon- 
crieff took  out  another  cigarette.  The  children  had 
scattered,  their  interest  gone,  so  the  three  stood  alone. 

Then  Helen  laughed  convulsively,  and  at  the  sound 
Mrs.  Jennings  burst  out:  "Moncrieff!  Pooh  I 
Who  ever  heard  of  that  name  in  Boston!  Mon- 


HELEN  113 

crieff!  You  might  at  least  have  picked  out  a  more 
likely  name  than  that.  And  haven't  I  been  watching 
you  through  my  front  parlour  window  ever  since  you 
left  me  to  hurry  home." 

Helen  was  staring,  fascinated,  at  Mrs.  Jennings, 
and  when  she  stopped  for  breath,  laughed  again. 
Then  the  muscles  of  her  face  seemed  suddenly  to 
freeze  into  rigid  white  lines.  "  Really,  Mr.  Mon- 
crieff,"  she  said  bitterly,  "  I  had  no  thought  of  sub- 
jecting you  to  this  when  you  were  good  enough  to 
stop  to  speak  with  me.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Jennings  will 
add  one  more  to  your  collection  of  American  impres- 
sions." 

"  Tush,"  cried  that  lady,  turning  fiercely  to  Mon- 
crieff.  "  And  you,  Mr.  Bond.  Aren't  you  ashamed 
to  lend  yourself  to  such  deception — a  man  with  your 
good  name  making  mock  of  a  respectable  middle-aged 
lady.  It's  shameful — that's  what  I  call  it,  and  I'll 
keep  on  saying  so  if  I  have  to  cry  it  from  the  house- 
tops, that  I  will.  Truly  the  ways  of  men  are  past 
understanding." 

"  But,  madam,"  he  protested,  "  this  is  all  a  mis- 
take. I  assure  you  I'm  not  Mr.  Bond.  See,  here  is 
one  of  my  calling  cards  to  prove  it."  He  took  out 
his  pocketbook. 

"  Oh,  no,  young  man.    You  needn't  trouble  your- 


ii4  THE   GREEN  VASE 

self.  I  know  all  I  want  to  know  and  I've  said  all 
I  want  to  say — to  you.  Good-day." 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  made  an  awful  mess  for  you, 
Mrs.  Murphy,"  Moncrieff  said. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "  It  will  merely  hasten 
the  crisis.  Good-bye.  No.  Please  do  not  walk  home 
with  me;  I  should  rather  be  alone,  if  you  don't  mind." 

As  he  walked  slowly  toward  the  car  line  Mon- 
crieff whistled  softly  to  himself.  "  I'll  be  hanged," 
he  thought,  "  if  I  understand  all  this.  She  seemed 
so  straight,  but  there  can't  be  all  this  smoke  without 
some  fire.  I  wonder  what  she  meant  by  saying  it 
would  only  hasten  the  crisis.  Oh,  damn  it  all,  I  think 
I  had  better  let  Steve  manage  his  own  salvation." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

HELEN  stood  looking  out  of  the  front  window.  The 
low  sun  still  sent  a  stream  of  yellow  light  through 
the  trees  in  the  Park  and  turned  the  dust  clouds 
golden  as  they  hissed  along  the  street  and  against 
the  window.  She  moved  nervously.  The  hand  that 
clutched  one  of  the  blue-white  lace  curtains  rolled  it 
into  a  ball  and  unconsciously  tore  it  full  of  little  holes. 
She  was  waiting  for  her  husband  and  strained  her 
eyes  to  see  through  the  clouded  pane.  The  lonely 
afternoon  had  been  intolerable  and  endless.  But  she 
knew  at  last  what  she  must  say — that  so  far  as  life 
in  South  Boston  was  concerned  she  had  reached  the 
end  of  her  endurance.  Only  three  months — and  it 
seemed  as  many  years.  She  knew  what  Henry  would 
answer,  all  the  arguments  he  would  use,  the  impres- 
sion that  he  would  fear  any  change  might  have  on 
Uncle  John,  but  she  felt  the  strength  of  desperation 
and  the  power  to  prevail.  She  caught  her  breath 
as  she  had  so  often  during  the  afternoon  at  the  idea 
of  his  disappointment,  at  the  idea  that  she  had  so  far 
been  merely  a  hindrance  to  him  instead  of  the  aid 
she  had  so  proudly  and  fearlessly  planned  to  be.  But 


ii6  THE   GREEN   VASE 

her  ambition  for  that  was  as  bright  as  it  had  always 
been.  Might  she  not,  in  taking  him  out  of  the  narrow 
horizon  of  South  Boston  lead  him  into  greater  op- 
portunity? 

The  telephone  bell  rattled  through  the  silence  of 
the  house  and  she  started  with  an  unreasoning  fear. 
Never  had  she  lost  the  idea  that  a  telegram  meant 
disaster  of  some  kind,  and  now  the  sharp  jangling  of 
the  bell  seemed  to  hold  something  equally  sinister. 
She  forced  her  self-control  as  she  went  slowly  into  the 
hall  and  took  down  the  receiver. 

"  Hello." 

"Hello,  dear,  is  that  you?"  She  shivered  with 
relief  at  the  sound  of  Henry's  voice. 

"  Yes.    Why  are  you  so  late?  " 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I've  been  rushed  all  the  after- 
noon, and  now  I've  got  to  go  to  a  meeting  of  the 
strikers.  I  can't  come  home  to  dinner." 

"  Can't  come  home  to  dinner?  "  In  spite  of  her- 
self she  gave  a  choking  sob.  "  But,  Henry,  you 
must.  I  need  you." 

"  Do  you,  honey — well,  so  do  I  need  to  see  your 
bonnie  face.  What  is  it?  You're  not  sick?  " 

"  No,  not  really ;  just  sick  at  heart.  Please,  oh, 
please  come  home.  I'm  so  lonely." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  dear,  but  it's  not  me  only,  or 


HELEN  117 

even  you,  that  I  must  think  of — it's  all  these  poor 
strikers." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  them?  " 

"Helen!" 

She  caught  herself  up  sharply.  "  I'm  sorry  I  said 
that.  I  didn't  mean  it."  Her  voice  was  quite  firm 
at  last.  "  Of  course  you  have  told  Mr.  Bond  you 
will  not  be  here." 

"  I  tried  to,  but  I  can't  find  him.  It's  just  as  well. 
He'll  drive  the  spooks  away  until  I  get  home." 

"  But,  Henry,"  she  cried,  "  you  don't  understand. 
He  mustn't  come  when  I'm  alone.  Something  hap- 
pened to-day.  I  can't  tell  you  over  the  telephone." 

"  Something  happened?  Not  with  him?  You 
don't  want  to  see  him?" 

"  It's  no  fault  of  his.  But  these  people  in  the 
Park — they  see  everything  and  imagine  more." 

"  Let  them  imagine.  I'll  soon  straighten  them  out, 
dog'on  them.  Don't  worry,  but  have  a  good  time. 
I'll  be  home  soon  after  nine.  Now  I  must  run  and 
get  a  bite  before  the  meeting.  Good-bye." 

Mechanically  she  hung  the  receiver  on  the  hook 
and  found  her  way  back  to  the  window.  For  whom 
was  she  waiting,  now  that  Henry  was  not  coming? 
For  Stephen?  She  imagined  other  windows  in  the 
Park,  all  filled  with  watchful,  spying  eyes,  impelled 


n8  THE    GREEN   VASE 

to  look  by  that  lowest  kind  of  curiosity  that  seeks  to 
know  what  the  neighbours  are  doing,  whom  they 
are  seeing,  and  why,  and  hoping  always  to  discover 
scandal.  Helen  turned  wearily  away  and  climbed 
the  stairs  to  her  room.  Again  mechanically  she  did 
her  hair  and  changed  to  a  simple  muslin  evening 
gown.  Then  she  returned  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  on  the  golden  dust  clouds,  red-shot,  now, 
like  flames,  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  What, 
even  to  the  spying  eyes  of  the  Park,  she  thought,  what 
of  scandal  could  there  be  in  this  daylight  meeting? 
Then  she  pictured  to  herself  Mrs.  Salsbury  next 
door,  she  who  took  boarders  at  sixty  cents  a  day, 
crouched,  spider-like,  behind  her  curtains,  waiting 
and  watching;  thought  how  the  spider  would  quiver 
at  the  approach  of  Stephen  to  her  web  of  malicious 
gossip ;  how  she  would  wait  and  watch  a  few  minutes 
longer  lest  Henry  should  come  like  a  clumsy  bumble- 
bee to  break  the  net;  how  she  would  at  last  emerge 
joyfully  and  scuttle  across  the  Park  to  pour  her  venom 
into  the  incredulous  but  delighted  ears  of  her  sister 
gossip,  Mrs.  Jennings.  Suddenly  Helen  felt  an  im- 
perative need  to  catch  the  spy  in  the  very  act  of  spy- 
ing. She  ran  from  the  room,  flung  open  the  door, 
and  darted  down  the  steep  front  steps  almost  into 
Stephen's  arms.  She  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cur- 


HELEN  119 

tains   moving   in   the   next  window   before   Stephen 
cried:  "  Mrs.  Murphy,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Matter,"  she  answered,  laughing,  and  impetu- 
ously, giving  him  both  her  hands.  "  Nothing  is  the 
matter.  I'm  just  glad  to  see  you.  I've  been  waiting 
so  long." 

"Waiting?"  he  queried  incredulously,  "waiting 
for  me?" 

'  Yes,  for  you.  For  any  one  who  will  be  good  to 
me." 

"  How  absurd  that  sounds.  Who  could  help  being 
good  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  as  they  climbed  the  steps. 

"  A  great  many  people,"  she  answered  vaguely. 
"  Mrs.  Salsbury  next  door,  who  takes  boarders,  and 
Mrs.  Jennings,  for  instance." 

"  But  they — what  do  you  care  what  they  do  to 
you?" 

"  It  isn't  what  they  do.  It's  just Oh,  every- 
thing. Won't  you  sit  down.  That  chair  is  probably 
the  least  uncomfortable  in  the  room."  As  she  spoke 
she  seated  herself  stiffly  on  the  sofa. 

"Why  can't  I  sit  there  with  you?" 
'  You  may  if  you  want  to,  I  suppose,"  she  said 
unconcernedly,  giving  him  room. 

He  looked  at  her,  puzzled  and  troubled.  This 
placid  unresponsiveness  was  as  difficult  to  understand 


120  THE   GREEN   VASE 

as  had  been  her  effusive  greeting.  He  returned  to 
their  former  topic.  "Surely,  you  don't  care  what 
women  of  that  class  think  of  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  care — what  every  one  thinks. 
What  they  say  doesn't  matter — much — but  what  peo- 
ple think  is  very  important." 

i{  Why  should  you  care  what  they  think  of  you, 
any  more  than  I  care  what  they  think  of  me?  " 

"  I  ought  not  to."  She  smiled  to  herself.  "  Henry 
said  '  dog'on  'em.  I'll  fix  'em.'  I  wonder  what  you 
would  have  said."  She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  I  should  probably  have  expressed  much  the  same 
sentiment,"  he  answered  awkwardly.  "  By  the  way, 
where  is  Henry?  " 

"  He's  not  at  home.  He  would  appreciate  your 
1  by  the  way.'  " 

"  It  was  not  meant  as  it  sounded,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing, and  then,  with  sudden  enlightenment  and  disap- 
pointment, "  I  suppose  you  ran  down  the  steps  to 
meet  him." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  knew  he  wasn't  coming.  I  wanted 
to  see  the  spider." 

"The  spider?" 

"  Yes,  don't  you  know  ?  Mrs.  Salsbury  next  door, 
who  takes  boarders.  She  serves  bad  meals,  I  am  sure, 
but  she  is  very  industrious.  She  sits  by  the  hour  at 


HELEN  121 

her  parlour  window,  looking  out  and  spinning  a  won- 
derful web  of  scandal.  I  wanted  to  see  her  at  work. 
She  is  there  still,  waiting  for  Henry,  and  when  he 
does  not  come  she  will  go  scuttling  across  the  Park 
to  give  out  her  big  piece  of  news  and  get  other  little 
ones  in  return." 

"  I  see,"  he  said  angrily.  "  Why  doesn't  Murphy 
come  to  spoil  her  little  story?" 

"  He  is  not  coming  until  after  dinner." 

"  Then  do  you  want  me  to  go?  " 

"No,  why  go?  The  harm  is  already  done,  and 
Henry  told  me  to  have  a  good  time  with  you  and 
forget  my  troubles.  Dinner  must  be  ready." 

"  How  wonderful !    Alone  with  you  1  " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "  Wonderful  is 
hardly  the  word." 

Stephen  flushed  deeply.  "  I  did  not  mean  it  in 
that  way.  I  have  a  friend  who  always  uses  the  word 
wonderful  to  express  disappointment." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  That  will 
do  for  an  excuse.  I  was  afraid  for  a  moment  that 
Mr.  Moncrieff  might  have  been  right  about  you." 

"Moncrieff?    What  did  he  say?  " 

"  Nothing  of  importance.  Simply  that  there  were 
some  things  about  you  that  you  did  not  understand 
yourself.  Dinner  is  ready.  Shall  we  go  in?  " 


122  THE    GREEN    VASE 

At  the  table  she  placed  him  at  her  right,  leaving 
Henry's  seat  opposite  vacant.  When  the  maid  had 
served  the  soup,  Stephen  said  somewhat  tentatively, 
"  I  did  not  know  you  had  seen  Moncrieff  again?  " 

"  I  saw  him  this  noon  in  the  Park.  He  had  been 
having  a  swim.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  talk,  and 
— we  agreed  to  be  friends." 

"  A  compact  against  me?  " 

"  Surely  not.  Why  should  two  of  your  friends 
conspire  against  you  ?  " 

"  Phil  has  some  curious  ideas  about  me.  He  thinks 
I  need  to  be  protected  against  myself.  You  just 
said  that  he  thought  I  did  not  understand  myself." 

"  Nor  does  any  man,  Mr.  Bond.  That  is  woman's 
prerogative — completely  to  understand  herself." 

"  But  you  say  you  do  not — not  completely  under- 
stand yourself." 

"  I  am  learning  to.  I  appreciate  now  the  longings 
of  the  other  woman,  the  ancestral  woman  I  told  you 
about,  and  I  know  that  her  demands  are  imperative. 
To  be  myself  I  must  realise  her,  must  live  her 
life." 

"And  that  means?" 

11  What  that  means  I  will  tell  you  after  dinner, 
if  you  are  still  interested.  Maids — in  this  environ- 
ment at  least — talk  of  what  they  do  not  understand 


HELEN  123 

to  other  maids,  who  in  turn  discuss  their  news  up- 
stairs, and  so  the  scandal  grows.  What  is  the  latest 
news  of  the  strike?" 

She  laughed  at  the  expression  on  his  face.  "  That 
is  really  the  most  vital  question  in  these  days,  you 
know,  and  is  supremely  important  to  us  who  live  in 
South  Boston  and  have  to  shop  in  Boston.  You  see, 
I  must  go  to  town  almost  every  day  to  see  dress- 
makers and  all  the  other  expensive  people  whom  we 
women  have  to  see." 

'  The  strike  is  as  bad  as  it  can  be,"  he  said 
gloomily. 

"Really?    Tell  me  all  about  it." 

So  the  dinner  dragged  along.  Helen  talked  in- 
cessantly, asking,  commenting,  and  arguing  when  she 
could  make  Stephen  argue.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
must  be  dreaming.  She  took  in  only  enough  of  what 
he  said  to  answer  with  some  semblance  of  sanity, 
and  wondered,  as  she  heard  her  own  voice,  whether 
she  was  chattering  the  merest  nonsense.  She  felt 
that  she  was  exerting  every  nerve,  dared  not  laugh 
for  fear  that  she  should  lose  control  of  herself,  was 
angry  with  Stephen  because  he  let  her  carry  the  whole 
burden  of  conversation.  To  rest,  to  sleep,  if  she 
could — that  was  all  that  seemed  worth  while. 

In  the  parlour  after  dinner  he  returned  gruffly  to 


i24  THE   GREEN   VASE 

his  question.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  such  emotion 
as  he  had  never  suspected.  He  hated  her  because  he 
realised  that  she  had  become  everything  to  him  and 
the  rest  of  his  world  nothing;  because  he  knew  that 
she  responded  in  no  way  to  his  growing,  almost  over- 
mastering love.  He  felt  her  to  be  unattainable,  and 
yet,  in  a  curious,  vague  way  felt  her  to  be  his.  And 
through  the  mist  of  it  all  he  kept  his  senses,  remem- 
bered his  own  unspotted  name,  and  hers,  and  her 
husband's.  But  he  could  not  keep  the  gruffness  from 
his  voice  because  he  knew  it  must  be  that  or  a  pas- 
sionate tenderness.  "And  that  means?"  he  mut- 
tered as  though  there  had  been  no  hiatus  in  their 
talk. 

"  Won't  you  light  a  cigarette?  "  she  said.  He  did 
so,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  his  shoulder 
touching  the  green  vase.  "  I  wish  you  would  move 
suddenly  and  break  it,"  she  added. 

He  moved  away.    "  Will  you  answer  me  ?  " 
"  We  were  talking  about  the  strike,  I  think." 
"We  are  not  now.    You  know  what   I   mean. 
Don't   pretend.     My  Heaven — you   will   drive   me 
mad!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  then  spoke  rapidly.  "  I 
said  that  I  must  live  the  life  of  the  other  woman. 
That  is  true.  I  have  tried  and  tried,  but  the  people 


HELEN  125 

I  know  give  me  nothing — nor  I  them,  except  an  end- 
less subject  for  gossip.  I  must  change  it  all." 

"  And  you  don't  know  how,"  he  cried  eagerly,  im- 
petuously. "Helen!  I  can  help  you." 

She  shrank  a  little  in  her  chair  and  he  came  toward 
her. 

"  Stop,"  she  cried  bitterly,  with  a  gesture  of  sudden 
repulsion.  "  Would  you  take  away  the  only  friend 
I  have?" 

He  stood  looking  at  her  and  slowly  his  arms 
dropped  to  his  sides.  "  Is  there  no  hope,  then  ?  " 

"Hope?"  she  threw  back  at  him.  "Hope  of 
what?  Are  you  thinking  of  yourself  or  of 
me?" 

"Of  myself,"  he  said  contritely,  the  fire  dying  from 
his  eyes — then,  with  a  whimsical  smile,  "  I  told  you 
before  that  I  always  thought  of  myself." 

"  No.  You  told  me  that  you  always  thought  of 
what  others  would  think  of  you.  You  are  not  doing 
that  now." 

"  I  forgot  to  be  myself.  The  shell  cracked.  Per- 
haps I  lost  my  head."  He  laughed  again.  "And 
that  is  what  Phil  said,  and  you  said,  that  I  needed 
to  do.  I  don't  find  it  a  very  amusing  or  uplifting 
experience." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  she  said  sadly,  "  but  at  least  it  has 


126  THE   GREEN   VASE 

brought  us  face  to  face — and  with  shame  for  me,  be- 
cause I  knew." 

"Knew  what?" 

"  Your  feeling  about  me,  Mr.  Bond.  Ever  since 
that  night  at  your  house " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Even  then  I  made  a  fool  of  myself 
and  you  set  me  straight." 

"  But  after  that — I  could  not  do  right.  I  could 
not  put  you  out  of  my  life  because  you  represented 
the  things  that  made  life  worth  living — for  the  other 
me.  And  all  that  time  I  have  been  making  you 
miserable." 

"  No,  not  that,"  he  said  very  gently.  "  You  were 
showing  me  what  life  might  have  meant.  And  to- 
night  " 

"  Oh,  to-night,"  she  interrupted.  "  Don't  speak 
of  to-night.  I  was  tired,  despairing — anything.  I 
used  you  for  my  own  ends — cruelly,  since  I  knew. 
I  treated  you  almost  as  a  lover,  and  I  do  not  love 
you." 

"  I  know  you  do  not." 

"  But,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "  everything  I  have 
said  is  true.  I  will  be  myself,  the  other  self  that  is 
the  true  me.  I  must  be.  But  not  in  the  way  you 
thought — that  you  had  a  right  to  think.  I  must  allow 
that  self  to  develop  out  of  the  one  that  is  here;  I 


HELEN  127 

must  take  what  I  have  and  conquer  my  surround- 
ings." 

"Here?"  he  asked  incredulously.  "Can  you 
work  miracles?  " 

"  No,  not  here.  To-day  has  made  that  impossi- 
ble." She  smiled.  "  Until  now  I  had  visions  of 
being  an  angel  of  sweetness  and  light  in  South  Bos- 
ton, but  the  angel's  wings  are  heavy  and  her  features 
so  blackened  with  soot  that  people  might  con- 
tinue to  mistake  her  for  a  devil.  No,  I  must  go 
away !  " 

"  With  your  husband?  " 

"  With  my  husband,  of  course,"  she  answered 
proudly.  "  Have  you  ever  pictured  to  yourself  Amer- 
ican society  as  I  have,  as  a  great  building,  topped 
with  innumerable  towers,  some  white  against  the  sky 
and  springing  from  an  unknown  source,  others,  less 
graceful,  but  stronger,  built  stone  by  stone  from  the 
granite  foundation?  " 

"  I  think  I  understand." 

"  Then  you  will  understand  my  dream.  I  thought 
that  I  belonged  in  one  of  those  white  towers,  but  had 
gone  astray  and  had  lost  my  way." 

"  You  do  belong  there." 

"  No,  I  have  no  home.  I  have  lost  the  birthright 
of  inheritance.  Long  absence  does  that.  But  I  have 


128  THE    GREEN   VASE 

not  lost  touch  with  my  class.  I  have  married  one 
who  is  capable  of  building  for  himself.  When  his 
tower  is  finished  I  can  meet  proudly  my  old  asso- 
ciates. Only  in  that  way,  through  my  own  upward 
striving,  working  by  Henry's  side,  can  I  ever  reach 
the  goal  with  happiness  to  myself  and  to  him.  Do 
you  see?"  she  added,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  took  it,  and  bending  down  kissed  it  almost 
humbly.  "And  I,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  place  in  it 
all." 

"  Oh,  but  you  have,"  she  put  in  quickly.  "  You 
revealed  me  to  myself.  You  were  the  first  to  hold 
out  a  kindly  hand." 

"But  now?" 

"  Ah,  now,"  she  echoed.  "  Now  you  must  go  away 
for  a  time — until  you  are  well.  Henry  and  I  must 
stand  alone.  I  have  clung  to  you  when  I  had  no  right 
because  you  gave  me  courage.  But  it  is  wrong, 
cruel  to  you,  as  I  said,  and  for  me — I  dare  do  it  no 
longer." 

"  What  a  brute  I  have  been." 

"  No,  not  that.  But  I  should  fear  to  lose  you 
altogether,  as  I  almost  lost  you  to-night,  and  I  have 
learned  that  people  will  inevitably  think  evil  of  me 
and  of  you." 

"  Not  my  friends." 


HELEN  129 

"  Yes,  yours,  too.  I  learned  that  from  Mr.  Mon- 
crieff.  Our  positions,  socially,  are  too  far  apart." 

"  Only  apparently." 

"  Well,  only  apparently,  if  you  will,  but  what 
seems  is  often  more  effective  in  creating  belief  than 
what  is." 

"  And  in  this  misunderstanding  it  is  you  who  suf- 
fer." 

"  Yes.     It  is  always  the  woman." 

"  Then  I  will  go,"  he  said,  harshly  again,  and 
without  looking  at  her.  "  Good-bye." 

"  You  will  not  wait  to  see  Henry?  He  will  want 
to  tell  you  the  latest  strike  news." 

"  Strike  news !  "  He  laughed.  "  Is  there  a  strike? 
I  had  forgotten.  What  does  it  matter?  "  And  then 
he  turned  to  her  once  more.  "  I  do  not  want  to  see 
your  husband.  See  him !  Good  God !  And  tell  him 
I  love  his  wife,  or  still  play  the  hypocrite?  Which 
would  be  the  finer  thing?  Good-bye." 

Stephen  rushed  from  the  house  and  down  the  steps. 
As  he  turned  to  the  right  to  let  the  tentative  east 
wind  cool  his  face  he  saw  in  a  half-lighted  window 
the  dark  silhouette  of  the  "  spider."  "  Eight-thirty," 
he  muttered,  looking  at  his  watch  under  a  street  light, 
"  much  may  happen  in  two  hours,  my  tireless  friend. 
Make  the  most  of  it.  This  is  your  last  chance,  for  I 


130  THE   GREEN   VASE 

am  going  out  of  your  miserable  ken  forever.  Make 
the  most  of  it.  Your  imagination  is  as  narrow  as 
your  vision.  The  truth  you  will  never  dream,  and 
what  you  dream — ugh — a  pure  woman  with  the  cour- 
age of  Helen  can  live  down  all  lies." 


CHAPTER   IX 

AT  the  corner  he  turned  back,  struck  across  the  Park, 
and  with  a  last  glance  at  the  light  in  Helen's  parlour, 
where  he  could  imagine  her  sitting  sadly  among  her 
hideously  incongruous  surroundings,  swung  at  a  rapid 
pace  toward  Boston.  In  the  turmoil  of  his  thoughts 
he  was  conscious  of  pushing  his  way  through  crowds 
of  men  whose  vociferous  complaints,  and  sullen,  men- 
acing faces  sometimes  made  his  nerves  quiver  with 
a  pain  beyond  his  own  suffering.  It  was  the  strike, 
in  action,  permeating  the  atmosphere  with  its  lurid 
possibilities  of  terror.  On  the  bridge  there  was  space 
and  air.  He  stopped,  and  leaning  over  the  parapet 
took  off  his  hat  and  rested,  taking  long  refreshing 
breaths,  until  a  huge  man,  dirty  and  threatening, 
seemingly  an  incarnation  of  the  strike,  told  him 
gruffly  to  move  on.  Stephen  looked  at  him  curiously, 
wondered  at  the  madness  in  his  eyes,  and  then,  too 
heart-weary  for  argument,  obeyed.  He  passed  un- 
seeing through  the  deserted  business  streets,  was  irri- 
tated at  the  sudden  glare  and  noise  of  Tremont 
Street  and  grateful  for  the  leafy  stillness  of  the  Com- 
mon. Before  reaching  the  foot  of  the  hill  that  led 


132  THE   GREEN   VASE 

to  Beacon  Street  he  felt  suddenly  tired  and  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  benches  where  so  many  of  the  homeless 
spent  their  nights.  The  noise  of  the  city  broke  at 
the  edge  of  the  Common.  It  seemed  to  him  sugges- 
tive of  evil.  He  had  never  thought  of  it  before,  but 
as  he  listened  now,  and  saw  dimly  the  lines  of  women 
filing  along  Tremont  Street,  vice  seemed  to  him  sud- 
denly one  of  the  great,  overwhelming  facts  of  human 
life,  damnable,  of  course,  yet  insistent  and  curiously 
fascinating.  The  thought  died  at  birth,  strangled 
mercifully  by  all  the  traditions  of  his  upbringing  and 
of  his  blood.  It  was  dead,  but  its  death  left  him 
inert  and  physically  weak  on  this  hot  summer  night. 

A  woman  was  descending  the  hill,  walking  easily, 
with  the  swing  of  one  accustomed  to  be  outdoors. 
She  looked  familiar,  but  he  was  only  subconsciously 
aware  of  her  until  she  stopped  before  him.  '  You, 
Stephen,"  she  said,  "  you,  adorning  the  Common  like 
other  loafers.  May  I  sit  down?  " 

"  Katherine !  "  He  had  not  risen,  but  he  turned 
toward  her  gratefully.  She  was  a  breath  of  clean, 
pure  air,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been 
breathing  the  stagnant  mists  of  sin  and  sorrow.  "  I'm 
glad  to  see  you.  But  what  would  Mrs.  Bland  say?  " 

"  She  would  be  delighted,  Steve.  You  know  it, 
and  that's  one  reason  why  we  never  have  these  clan- 


HELEN  133 

destine  meetings.  One  reason,  I  said — the  other — 
well,  the  world  moves  fast,  and  one  man  more  or  less, 
or  one  girl  better  or  worse,  doesn't  matter,  I  suppose." 
She  laughed  mirthlessly,  and  he  felt  a  tug  at  his  heart 
strings. 

"  Here  in  the  city "  he  said.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Katherine,  those  wonderful  days  in  the  open 
when  we  were  little  and  loved  each  other?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  sharply.  "  I  have  forgotten 
all  such  silly  things.  Where  have  you  been  to- 
night?" 

The  question  brought  him  sharply  to  himself.  "  I 
have  been  dining,"  he  said,  "  with  a  woman.  Some 
one  you  have  never  heard  of  and  are  never  likely  to 
hear  of.  And  she  is  wonderful,  Katherine,  wonder- 
ful." 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"  In  South  Boston." 

Katherine  Bland  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  "  I 
didn't  know  you  knew — that  kind,  Steve." 

"  That  kind,"  he  cried.  "  But,  Katherine,  I  tell 
you  she  is  wonderful,  unspoiled.  She  has  dreams  that 
are  like  the  visions  of  our  childhood — and  we  have 
forgotten  how  to  have  visions  any  more." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  she  is  so  sad,   Katherine,  so  borne  down 


i34  THE    GREEN   VASE 

with  what  she  has  to  bear — and  so  brave.  She  never 
loses  courage.  She  will  find  her  place.  Why,  just 
to-night  she  told  me  in  a  word  what  our  society  was 
like — many,  many  high  towers,  beautiful  against  the 
sky,  some  white  and  distant,  as  though  born  of  air — 
those  are  the  towers  where  you  and  I  live,  Katherine. 
And  then  there  are  others,  equally  beautiful,  built 
up  bit  by  bit  from  the  earth,  and  those  who  live  in 
them  meet  us  on  terms  of  equality  She  means  to 
live  in  one  of  those.  It  is  a  possible  dream,  isn't  it, 
Katherine?" 

"  No,"  she  answered  harshly.  "  It  isn't.  I  don't 
want  to  know  such  people,  Steve,  and  neither  do  you. 
I  believed  in  you  always — and  now.  I  must  go 
home." 

He  leaned  heavily  against  the  back  of  the  bench. 
"  You  don't  think  it  possible?  " 

"  Certainly  not.    Good-night." 

He  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  Please  don't  come.  I  should  rather,  much  rather, 
be  alone." 

He  thought  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  sob  in  her 
voice,  but  gravely  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Not  possible,"  he  muttered,  turning  toward  his 
own  home.  "  Katherine  is  cynical  and  all  the  Elands 
are  hard.  But  she  knows."  And  then  he  thought  of 


HELEN  135 

Helen,  waiting  in  the  hideous  room  for  her  husband. 
Was  there,  then,  no  hope  for  her?  He  clenched 
his  hands  and  bowed  his  head  despairingly.  At  his 
own  doorstep  he  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  down 
the  Hill  at  the  bright  windows  of  the  Club,  and  then 
entered.  Even  solitude,  with  its  attendant  spectres, 
was  preferable  to  the  talk  of  his  fellow-men. 

At  the  sound  of  the  latch-key  Spriggs  appeared. 
"  Mr.  Moncrieff  is  in  the  library,"  he  said.  "  Is 
there  anything  more,  sir?" 

"  No,"  Stephen  responded.  "  I  shall  need  noth- 
ing. Go  to  bed." 

"  Yes,  sir.    Thanking  you,  sir." 

He  had  wanted  to  be  alone,  but  there  were  all  the 
years  to  come  in  which  he  could  think.  Perhaps  Mon- 
crieff would  make  him  forget.  He  went  slowly  up 
the  stairs  and  pushed  open  the  library  door.  "  Hello, 
Phil." 

"  Hello,  Steve,  old  man.  Making  myself  at  home 
as  usual.  Couldn't  find  you  anywhere  and  wanted  to 
talk,  so  I  just  camped  out  until  your  return.  Where 
in  the  devil  have  you  been?  " 

"  Dining  out,"  Stephen  answered  shortly,  as  he 
lighted  a  cigar  and  sank  into  a  deep  armchair. 

"  Dining  out,  ha?  A  new  kind  of  dinner  costume 
I  call  that."  Stephen  had  on  his  business  suit. 


136  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  It  was  a  business  dinner." 

"  Oh,  business.    South  Boston,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  South  Boston.  Have  you  any  objection?  I 
hear  you  were  there  yourself  to-day." 

"  So  I  was,  but  not  to  talk  about  the  strike.  You 
have  some  queer  types  in  this  country.  I  think  I'll 
write  a  book  about  them — '  Impressions  of  a  Tramp,' 
or  something  of  that  sort.  Mrs.  Jennings,  her  name 
is,  I  think — the  particular  type  that  flung  itself  at 
me  to-day.  And  then,  of  course,  there  was  Mrs. 
Murphy,  but  her  type  is  world-wide." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Nothing — except  that  I  know  a  great  many  peo- 
ple like  her." 

"  Do  you  really?  "  Stephen's  voice  had  a  sarcastic 
ring.  "I  wish  I  did." 

"You?  Bah!  You  have  never  had  the  chance 
because  you  have  never  made  a  study  of  the  under- 
world as  I  have." 

"  You  insist  on  misunderstanding  her,  don't  you, 
Phil?" 

"  Quite  the  contrary.  I  almost  did  for  a  half-hour 
to-day.  But  then,  I  was  seeing  her  without  her  gen- 
tleman husband  and  she  had  a  chance  to  play  with  me. 
You  know — it's  a  funny  thing — but  no  matter  how 
old  I  grow  a  pretty  woman  can  always  do  that — 


HELEN  137 

while  I'm  with  her.  Of  course  to-day  Mrs.  Jennings 
dispelled  the  illusion  more  quickly  that  it  would  have 
gone  of  its  own  accord.  I  have  known  complete  re- 
covery to  take  a  month  when  a  woman  has  been  un- 
usually plausible." 

"  What  illusion  do  you  mean  in  Mrs.  Murphy's 
case?" 

"General  disinterestedness,  my  dear  boy;  love  of 
abstract  virtue — personified  in  marital  relations — in- 
nocence of  social  ambition — all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  And  you  let  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Jennings  destroy 
that  illusion,  as  you  call  it?  " 

'  There  was  no  question  of  letting  her  do  it.  The 
simple  refutation  of  one  belief  on  my  part — and  un- 
conscious refutation,  mind  you,  which  is  the  best  of 
evidence — brought  down  the  whole  bally  edifice  with 
a  crash." 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how?  " 

"  Not  at  all — if  you're  reasonable  and  won't  lose 
your  temper.  We  were  talking  about  you." 

"  So  I  supposed.     Go  on." 

"  Mrs.  Murphy  had  actually  made  me  believe  that 
you  were  nothing  to  her,  that  she  seldom  saw  you 
and  then  only  with  her  husband.  I  was  glowing 
with  reflected  virtue,  swore  eternal  friendship,  was 
prepared  generally  to  make  an  ass  of  myself,  when 


138  THE    GREEN   VASE 

down  swooped  Mrs.  Jennings  and  demanded  an  in- 
troduction to  Mr.  Bond." 

"And  then?" 

"  Then?  If  you  were  not  so  dense  you  would  see. 
There  was  more  talk.  She  still  believes  I  am  you 
because  with  one  such  constant  attendant  another 
man  friend  was  inconceivable." 

"  And  so,  because  of  one  woman's  scandal-loving 
mind  you  conclude  that  another  deserves  the  mud 
flung  at  her,"  Stephen  spoke  sternly. 

"  The  other  happened  to  be  young  and  pretty  and 
poor  and  dissatisfied  and  socially  ambitious.  You 
don't  deny  that.  It  is  a  combination  of  qualities 
that  I  know  the  meaning  of,  even  if  you  don't." 

"  It's  a  combination  of  qualities  from  which  you 
generalise — as  you  have  a  very  bad  habit  of  doing, 
Phil — without  taking  individual  character  into  ac- 
count at  all.  Mrs.  Murphy  has  no  connection  with 
the  underworld.  I  should  trust  her  as  I  should  my 
own  sister,  if  I  had  one.  She  is " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  know  all  about  that.  She's  a  woman 
in  a  thousand.  She  is — well,  all  the  things  I  said 
two  years  ago  about  Lilly  Merrill.  It's  all  piffle." 

"  Lilly  Merrill  happened  to  be  a  chorus  girl.  It  is 
insulting  to  bring  her  in." 

"  Not  at  all.    Lilly's  father  was  a  country  clergy- 


HELEN  139 

man — like  the  fathers  of  all  aspiring  chorus  girls. 
I  have  no  doubt  if  she  had  been  friendly  with  the 
leading  man  he  might  even  have  acted  the  part  for 
my  benefit.  But  what  is  more  to  the  point,  Lilly's 
intentions  were  strictly  honourable  and  moral.  She 
wanted  to  marry  me." 

Stephen  got  up  angrily  from  his  chair.  "  We 
have  had  about  enough  of  this,"  he  said.  "  Can  I 
put  you  up  for  the  night,  or  are  you  going  back  to 
the  Club?" 

"  That — later,"  Moncrieff  answered  lazily,  "  if 
you  play  fair  and  don't  lose  your  temper.  You  got 
me  out  of  a  scrape  once.  I  want  to  square  the  ac- 
count." 

"  But  I  don't  need  your  help.  I  am  not  in  any 
scrape." 

Moncrieff  helped  himself  to  a  whiskey  and  soda. 
"  They  say,"  he  remarked,  "  that  when  a  man  is  suf- 
ficiently far  under  water  he  does  not  know  that  he  is 
drowning.  But  that  doesn't  prevent  the  fellows  with 
the  grappling  irons  from  doing  their  work." 

"  All  they  pull  up  is  a  dead  body." 

"  That  is  better  than  nothing.  They  at  least  have 
a  memento  of  the  dear  departed  one,  something  over 
which  to  plant  roses  and  forget-me-nots.  Now  tell 
me.  What  have  I  said  that  irritates  you?  " 


140  THE    GREEN   VASE 

"  I  am  not  willing  to  have  any  insinuations  made 
in  this  house  against  the  good  name  of  Mrs.  Mur- 
phy." 

"Why?" 

Stephen  looked  down  at  him  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking.  "  Because  I  love  her,"  he  said,  at  last, 
very  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"  Oh,"  Moncrieff  responded.  "  Then  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  don't  mean  to  butt  in  on  my  friends'  little 
love  affairs." 

"  I  love  her  honourably,"  Stephen  added,  in  the 
same  even  voice. 

Moncrieff  snorted.  "  Honourably.  Since  when 
has  it  been  the  custom  in  America  to  love  one  an- 
other's wives  honourably?  Of  course  I  believe  you, 
so  far.  You  are  truthful,  and  you  tell  me  you  have 
never  been  alone  with  her." 

"  I  was  alone  with  her  in  her  own  house  all  this 
evening.  I  dined  with  her." 

"The  devil  you  did!" 

"  And  I  lost  my  head,"  Stephen  continued  quietly. 
"  I  tried  to  tell  her  that  I  loved  her  and  she  answered 
by  showing  me  how  truly  she  loved  her  husband. 
That  is  all  that  happened  and  it  is  the  end.  The 
miserable  gossips  in  South  Boston  have  made  her  life 
intolerable  there.  If  there  are  miserable  gossips  in 


HELEN  141 

the  Back  Bay  I  should  advise  them  to  come  direct 
to  me  with  their  tattle.  Now  it  is  time,  I  think,  for 
you  to  go  back  to  the  Club." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  Moncrieff  assented,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "  My  grappling  irons  have  missed  to-night. 
Remember  that  they  are  always  ready  if  you  need 
them.  You  say  it's  all  over  and  I  hope  to  Heaven 
it  is,  but  when  a  man  of  your  kind  falls  in,  Steve, 
he  has  a  long  swim  to  shore.  Good-night." 

"  A  long  swim  to  shore,"  Stephen  repeated,  as  he 
threw  himself  into  his  chair.  "  A  long  swim  to  the 
shore  of  forgetfulness — no,  drowning  is  better.  The 
shore — my  God — I  cannot  even  imagine  its  outlines." 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  before 
Henry  came  in.  Helen  had  been  in  bed  since  ten, 
not  sleeping,  not  brooding,  although  it  seemed 
to  her  sometimes  as  though  her  sadness  had  in 
it  the  might  of  darkness  and  of  death.  She  was 
infinitely  weary.  Every  nerve  quivered  and  her  mus- 
cles twitched  convulsively,  as  though  she  had  been 
stretched  on  a  rack  and  was  only  gradually  sinking 
back  into  her  normal  shape.  But  when  her  husband 
came  she  pretended  to  be  asleep;  did  not  even  move 
when  he  whispered  her  name  and  touched  her  cheek 
with  his  lips  before  getting  into  bed.  She  knew  that 
to  talk  would  be  impossible.  At  last  the  very  effort 
not  to  move  put  her  to  sleep,  and  when  she  became 
conscious  again  the  room  was  flooded  with  light 
and  Henry  was  already  nearly  dressed. 

"  Good-morning,  dear,"  she  called.  She  was  not 
rested,  but  the  new  daylight  seemed  to  give  her 
courage. 

Henry  strode  to  the  bedside,  and  taking  her  face 
in  his  hands,  kissed  her.  "  Oh,  my  honey,"  he  said, 

142 


HELEN  143 

with  almost  a  sob  in  his  voice,  "  I  love  you.  I 
wouldn't  give  you  up  for  a  peck  of  peanuts." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not,"  she  laughed,  but  her  eyes 
filled  with  quick  tears.  "  Why  do  you  say  such  silly 
things?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  stroking  her  cheek. 
"  I  seem  to  feel  sort  of  lonesome  this  morning;  sort  of 
to  need  you  more  than  ever." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "  because  I  always  need  you, 
you  know,  and  if  you  need  me  too,  you  will  always 
want  to  be  with  me.  And  that's  what  makes  me 
happy.  Now  go  down  stairs  like  a  dear  and  read 
the  paper  while  I  dress.  After  breakfast  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  the  strike,  and  I  want  to  tell  you — 
all  about  me." 

A  half  hour  later  they  were  sitting  hand  in  hand 
on  the  green  sofa.  "  That  was  all  that  came  of  the 
meeting,"  he  concluded.  "  Five  hours  of  useless  talk, 
threats,  cursing.  My  God,  what  an  ass  that  Staples 
is !  Always  says  the  wrong  thing — or  the  right  thing 
the  wrong  way.  He  forgets  that  God  made  labouring 
men  just  as  much  as  he  made  little  red  apples.  No 
compromise — that  was  what  it  began  and  ended  with, 
and  there'll  be  trouble  to  follow — bloodshed,  I  guess. 
Some  of  the  strikers  stoned  the  cars  last  night." 

"How  horrible!" 


H4  THE   GREEN   VASE 

'  Yes.  But  we  mustn't  blame  them  too  much. 
They  wouldn't  do  it  of  their  own  accord.  They're 
just  egged  on  all  the  time.  Bond  was  dead  right  when 
he  said  the  national  union  leaders  were  dangerous." 

"  They  must  be  brutes." 

"  They  are.  Every  one  fighting  for  a  principle  is 
more  or  less  a  brute  because  they  see  only  one  thing. 
I  once  heard  a  peace  conference  delegate  say  that  he 
would  gladly  string  up  every  one  that  did  not  fight 
against  the  horrors  of  war." 

"  And  yet  just  those  people  who  are  fighting  for 
a  principle  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else  are 
needed  in  the  world.  They  are  needed  for  prog* 
ress." 

"  You  bet  they  are,  and  that's  just  what  worries 
me  about  these  union  leaders.  If  they're  honest  they 
must  be  some  use." 

"  It  is  not  only  honesty,  Henry.  It's  honesty 
backed  by  intelligence  and  training.  Have  they 
that?" 

"  I  guess  not  to  speak  of.  That's  the  trouble.  But 
some  men  that  never  had  any  chance  seem  to  get 
along  mighty  well  with  just  honesty  and  common 
sense.  Now  take  Jennings,  for  instance.  See  what 
he's  done  for  South  Boston." 

Helen  shivered  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  and 


HELEN  145 

Henry  pressed  her  hand.  "  And  that  in  spite  of  his 
wife,"  he  added — "  which  reminds  me  that  I  met  him 
this  morning  about  two,  in  the  Park.  He  was  finding 
it  necessary  to  cool  off.  Home  was  pretty  hot." 

"  So  you  knew  all  about  it  from  him." 

"  I  heard  a  lot  of  drivel  from  him.  He  likes  you, 
but  had  been  stormed  off  his  feet — and  he  didn't  quite 
know  what  to  answer." 

"  Henry,"  she  cried,  "  I  have  tried  so  hard,  and 
it  has  been  nothing  but  misrepresentation  and  misun- 
derstanding from  the  beginning.  After  that  awful 
scene  yesterday  noon  in  the  Park  it  seemed  as  though 
I  could  never  hold  up  my  head  again  for  shame.  I 
don't  dare  think  of  what  Mr.  Moncrieff  must  have 
thought." 

"  So  it  was  him.  I  knew  it  couldn't  have  been 
Bond,  because  I  saw  him  in  town  about  that  time. 
How'd  you  happen  to  meet  Moncrieff?  " 

"  I  was  sitting  on  a  bench  by  the  fountain.  It  was 
on  the  way  back  from  the  Women's  Club  meeting. 
Mr.  Moncrieff  had  been  swimming  and  stopped  to 
speak.  But  it's  not  only  that,  Henry.  That  was 
just  an  incident.  It  is  simply  that  I  cannot  live  any 
longer  here.  I  cannot  stand  the  suspicion  and  the 
gossip.  When  I  go  out  I  am  watched.  When  I  stay 
at  home  the  house  is  watched.  At  first  I  thought  I 


i46  THE   GREEN   VASE 

could  live  it  down,  but  it  gets  worse  and  worse,  and 
I  can't,  dear.    I  just  haven't  the  courage." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  close 
against  him.  "Don't  you  exaggerate,  honey?"  he 
said  at  last.  '  They  can't  be  so  much  interested  in 
you  as  all  that." 

"Can't  be?"  she  cried.  "Let  me  give  you  an 
example.  Last  night  I  felt  that  Mrs.  Salsbury  was 
spying.  I  wanted  to  see.  I  opened  the  door  and 
ran  down  the  steps,  almost  into  Mr.  Bond's  arms." 

"Well?" 

"  Didn't  Mr.  Jennings  tell  you  about  it — with  pic- 
turesque additions." 

"  So  that  was  the  truth  of  it,"  he  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her.  "  I  wondered  what  really  hap- 
pened." 

"You  see!" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  see.  And  it  must  be 
devilishly  hard  for  you,  but  that  seems  to  me  hardly 
sufficient  reason  for  running  away.  We  don't  want 
them  to  think  we  were  scared.  Besides,  we  own  the 
house." 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  think,"  she  sobbed,  resting 
her  head  against  his  shoulder.  "  I  wouldn't  care  if 
we  owned  the  Park.  I'm  just  lonesome  from  morn- 
ing to  night — no — I  shouldn't  mind  if  I  were  alone 


HELEN  147 

— but  the  terror  of  knowing  that  one  of  those  horri- 
ble women  may  come  at  any  moment — not  to  see  me, 
but  to  pry  into  our  lives — I  just  can't  endure  it." 

"  Helen,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  stroking  her  hair 
and  holding  her  close,  and  wondering  what  in  the 
world  he  could  do  with  her — "  Helen — please  don't. 
I've  never  seen  you  like  this  before.  Why  can't  we 
talk  reasonably  about  it?  It's  so  sudden,  you  know 
that  I  can't  think  all  in  a  minute  what  would  be  best. 
That's  a  good  girl.  I  knew  you  would  be  sensible." 

She  had  pulled  herself  together  and  walked  across 
to  the  window,  where  she  stood  with  her  back  to  him. 
"  Of  course,  a  thing  like  this,  dear  " — he  continued 
tentatively — "  well,  it's  a  big  move,  and  we  can't  do 
it  in  a  rush.  You  say  you  don't  want  to  live  in  South 
Boston  any  more.  I  guess  you  must  be  out  of  sorts 
so  you  don't  think  just  right  or  you'd  realise.  Now 
what  would  Uncle  John  think,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

She  turned  sharply  from  the  window.  "  I  don't 
care  in  the  least  what  Uncle  John  thinks,"  she  said. 
"  I  have  no  interest  in  his  opinions,  and  what's  more," 
she  added,  pointing  to  the  mantelpiece,  "  wherever  we 
go  that  hideous  vase  is  not  going  with  us.  I  never 
wanted  to  live  in  South  Boston.  I  was  never  con- 
sulted. There  is  not  a  soul  in  the  place  I  care  ever 
to  see  again.  I  have  tried  my  best  and  I  have  failed. 


i48  THE   GREEN   VASE 

You  don't  fail  when  you  start  to  do  things.  That 
is  why  you  will  never  understand,  and  is  one  of  the 
reasons  that  made  me  marry  you  and  has  made  me 
love  you.  But  I  have  failed.  I  haven't  any  courage 
left  to  make  another  attempt,  .and  that  is  why  I  say 
once  more — we  must  leave  here  as  soon  as  possible." 
She  turned  away  again  and  stood  looking  over  the 
Park. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  "  Helen,  dearest,"  he  whispered. 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind?"  she  returned 
in  a  hard  voice. 

He  took  his  hand  away  abruptly.  "  No.  This  is 
not  the  kind  of  thing  that  can  be  decided  in  a  mo- 
ment. I  must  think  it  over " 

"  Which  means  that  you  do  not  intend  to  move." 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  can't  say  now,  because  we  must 
think  of  the  future  as  well  as  the  present.  Now  I 
must  go  to  Boston.  Perhaps  we  can  talk  things  over 
again  to-night." 

"  If  I  am  here  to-night." 

"Helen.    What  do  you  mean?" 

She  turned  toward  him  and  suddenly  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck.  "  I  don't  mean  anything," 
she  said.  "  I  am  frightened  at  nothing  and  lone- 
some. I  am  silly  and  cruel,  but  I  want  to  go  away — 


HELEN  149 

to  be  somewhere  with  you  where  I  can  help  you — 
not  drag  you  down." 

"  That  would  be  impossible — that  you  could  drag 
me  down — anywhere.  Perhaps  you  can  help  most 
right  here.  Then  you  would  want  to  stay — for  the 
year  at  least." 

She  shivered  in  his  arms,  but  did  not  answer. 
"  Anyhow,  I'll  think  it  over,"  he  continued,  "  and 
perhaps  talk  with  Bond.  He's  shown  himself  a  good 
friend." 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  with  him,"  she  cried.  "  I  can't 
be  under  obligations  to  him." 

"Why  not?" 

She  stared  at  him  with  frightened  eyes.  "  I  don't 
know.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  again — not  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Helen,"  he  said  sternly.  "  Don't  act  like  a  baby. 
Try  to  think  straight.  To-night,  when  you  are  rea- 
sonable, we'll  have  another  talk.  And  one  other 
thing.  Don't  go  to  Boston  to-day.  I'm  afraid  to 
have  you  ride  in  the  cars.  Stay  at  home  or  else  go 
and  see  some  of  the  people  in  the  Park." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Jennings  might  like  me  to  drop  in  with  my  knitting." 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide.  All  I  insist  is  that 
you  do  not  ride  in  the  cars." 


150  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"Aren't  you  exaggerating  the  danger?" 

"  Perhaps  you  will  admit  that  I  am  the  best  judge 
of  that.  Good-bye."  He  kissed  her  cheek  and  hur- 
ried from  the  room.  Through  the  window  Helen 
watched  him  go,  and  caught  her  breath  when  he  did 
not  wave  to  her  as  usual. 

Then,  mechanically,  she  went  about  her  morning 
household  duties,  feeling  as  she  did  them  the  strange 
hold  that  routine  has  even  in  times  of  stress.  She 
moved  silently,  gave  her  orders  to  the  maid  in  a 
curiously  repressed  voice,  as  though  some  one  were 
lying  dead  in  an  adjoining  room.  The  surface  of 
her  mind  seemed  to  work  automatically,  while  within 
there  was  a  lifeless  chamber  of  despair.  She  made 
her  little  tasks  last  as  long  as  possible,  because  when 
they  were  over  she  knew  that  she  must  think,  and  that 
she  did  not  dare  to  do. 

But  finally  all  was  finished.  She  went  upstairs,  her 
feet  dragging,  and  sat  down  with  her  knitting  before 
the  open  window.  She  felt  physically  sick  and  passed 
her  cold  hand  wonderingly  across  her  hot  forehead. 
That,  at  least,  was  something  to  think  about.  She 
had  never  been  ill  in  her  life  and  could  not  under- 
stand it.  But  suddenly  the  spectre  of  her  despair 
once  more  leaped  into  the  foreground  of  her  mind. 
She  looked  shudderingly  into  the  future.  "  After 


HELEN  151 

a  year,  perhaps,"  Henry  had  said.  She  had  not  the 
power  to  bridge  that  gap — death  might  come  first — 
or  madness.  Again  she  saw  visions,  but  not  ordered 
ones,  consoling,  as  her  visions  usually  were.  Pictures 
of  the  strikers  screaming  their  hatred  of  the  world, 
of  herself  being  stoned  by  Mrs.  Jennings  and  the 
women  and  children  of  South  Boston.  Then  a  blind- 
ing glare  seemed  to  overwhelm  her  and  she  fell  back 
in  her  chair.  When  she  came  to  herself  she  was 
conscious  that  some  one  was  knocking  at  the  door. 
"  Come  in,"  she  called  feebly. 

The  maid  entered,  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "  Why, 
ma'am,"  she  cried  at  sight  of  Helen's  face.  "  You 
look  awful  sick.  Will  I  ring  for  the  doctor?  " 

"  No,  Mary,  I'm  not  sick — just  very  tired.  Give 
me  the  letter.  And,  Mary,  I  should  like  you  in  the 
future  to  wear  a  cap  when  you  are  not  in  the 
kitchen." 

"  A  cap,  ma'am?  "  she  said.  "  No,  ma'am,  I  can't 
do  that.  I  only  wears  caps  when  I'm  working  for 
the  quality,  ma'am." 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  rule?  "  she  said  gently.  "  Per- 
haps it's  of  no  consequence.  I  think  it  looks  well — 
that's  all.  You  may  go  now.  I  shall  not  be  at  home 
for  luncheon." 

The  maid  dropped  her  belligerent  air.     "  Much 


152  THE    GREEN   VASE 

as  I'd  like  to  do  it  to  oblige  you,  ma'am,  I  really 
couldn't,  you  know." 

"  As  I  said,  Mary,  it's  of  no  consequence."  She 
began  to  open  her  letter  and  did  not  look  around  as 
the  girl  left  the  room. 

"MRS.  HENRY  MURPHY,"  she  read,  "Madam: 
This  is  to  inform  you  that  at  a  special  meeting  of  the 
South  Boston  Ladies'  Thursday  Morning  Intellectual 
Improvement  Society  your  name  was  dropped  from 
the  list  by  a  standing  vote  " — "  I  wonder  whether  a 
standing  vote  is  more  definite  than  a  sitting  one," 
she  said  to  herself.  "  This  is  a  very  unusual  act," 
the  letter  continued,  "  and  is  only  resorted  to  in  very 
peculiar  and  untowered  circumstances.  It  was  ren- 
dered necessary  in  this  instance  for  the  following  rea- 
sons, ist.  By  your  unseemly  actions  with  men  in 
public  places.  2ndly.  By  your  entertaining  of  other 
men  in  your  home  during  the  absence  of  your  hus- 
band. And  3rdly.  By  your  general  reputation  for 
light  conduct  that  is  improper  in  a  member  of 
a  serious  intellectual  Society.  To  the  above  vote  and 
the  reasons  therefore  I  hereto  set  my  hand  and  seal 
in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 

(  "  Signed)  AMANDA  J.  JENNINGS,  President." 

Helen  laughed  almost  light-heartedly  as  she 
folded  the  letter.  If  this  were  tragedy,  surely  it  was 
tricked  out  in  all  the  beribboned.  costume  of  farce 


HELEN  153 

comedy.  Moreover,  it  was  something  tangible,  mean- 
ing isolation,  perhaps,  but  at  the  same  time  relief 
from  the  importunities — perhaps  from  the  curiosity 
— of  her  neighbours.  It  was  something  she  could 
grasp.  She  took  out  a  sheet  of  note-paper  to  answer 
immediately,  and  wrote: 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  JENNINGS  :  Your  communica- 
tion has  just  reached  me.  I  accept  gladly  the  decision 
of  your  Society  in  the  hope  that  your  action — which 
must  seem  to  you  the  extreme  of  punishment — will 
cause  you  and  your  friends  to  look  with  more  charity 
on  my  doings,  during  the  remaining  time  that  I  shall 
be  among  you,  and  that,  perhaps,  since  you  need 
no  longer  feel  responsible  for  me,  you  will  not  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  give  up  so  much  of  your  valuable 
time  to  the  inspection  and  discussion  of  my  move- 
ments. In  justification  of  myself  I  must  add  that 
since  living  in  South  Boston  I  have  done  nothing 
of  which  my  own  conscience  disapproves  nor  to  which 
my  husband  finds  it  necessary  to  take  exception. 
Thanking  you  for  the  many  kindnesses  which  you 
so  carefully  explained  to  me  yesterday  morning,  I  am, 
sincerely, 

"  HELEN  MURPHY." 

She  glanced  over  the  note,  smiled  to  herself,  and, 
calling  her  maid,  sent  it  to  its  destination. 

But  when  it  was  gone  and  she  had  taken  up  her 


154  THE   GREEN  VASE 

knitting  she  felt  again  die  dangers  of  her  imagina- 
tion. It  was  always  imminent — her  despair — ready 
to  dose  in  upon  her.  Suddenly  she  remembered  that 
she  had  said  she  would  not  be  at  home  for  luncheon. 
She  would  go  to  Boston.  Among  the  people  in  the 
streets,  in  a  hotel  dining-room,  perhaps,  she  could 
regain  her  poise,  look  the  world  squarely  in  the  face 
once  more,  be  ready  to  talk  with  Henry  rationally — 
the  only  way,  she  felt,  that  could  possibly  have  any 
effect.  Had  she  not  decided  long  ago  to  lead  him, 
through  his  reason,  to  her  way  of  thinking?  Well, 
it  had  come  sooner  than  she  planned.  She  could  not 
carry  him  with  her  insensibly,  step  by  step.  But  even 
so,  she  realised  that  hysterics  would  be  of  no  avail. 
Time  must  be  replaced  by  keener  wit,  gradual  per- 
suasion by  cogent  reasoning.  For  that,  perfect  con- 
trol of  mind  and  body  was  essential,  and  never  before 
had  she  so  thoroughly  distrusted  both.  She  could 
not  be  on  the  verge  of  illness.  She  had  no  time  for 
that.  And  yet  she  feared  it  because  every  fibre,  phys- 
ical as  well  as  nervous,  quivered.  Obviously  she  must 
have  distraction,  and  hurriedly,  almost  blindly,  she 
changed  into  a  street  suit  and  left  the  house. 

As  she  turned  down  the  hill  to  the  car  line  she 
stopped  short,  remembering  Henry's  injunction  that 
under  no  circumstances  should  she  ride  in  the  cars. 


HELEN  155 

But  her  hesitation  was  only  momentary.  In  its  place 
flared  up  an  unreasoning  anger.  She  felt  toward 
Henry  as  an  unjustly  accused  prisoner  might  feel  to- 
ward a  goaler  who  had  been  extraordinarily  land  to 
him,  who  trusted  him,  and  who  had  yet  tried  to  cut  off 
a  chance  to  escape.  To  Helen  this  excursion  to  Bos- 
ton was  an  escape,  a  release  from  surroundings  that 
had  become  for  the  time  being  intolerable.  Still 
more  did  it  mean  a  possible  lifting  of  the  veil,  a 
chance  to  regain  the  balance  that  she  knew  to  be 
imperative  to  any  effective  discussion  with  Henry. 
She  continued  down  the  hill. 

At  its  foot  she  met  Mr.  Jennings.  "  Sakes  alive," 
he  cried,  as  he  seized  her  hand.  "  You  do  look  sick, 
Mrs.  Murphy." 

"  No,"  she  said  irritably,  "  I  am  not  sick;  I  am 
merely  very  hot  and  rather  cross." 

"  I  don't  believe  it — the  last,  I  mean.  You  ain't 
that  kind,  even  if  things  do  rub  die  wrong  way. 
They  have  done  that  lately,  what?" 

"  Things?  I  admit  that  nothing  very  pleasant  has 
happened.  And  I  dislike  being  watched." 

"  I  just  bet  you  do.  It's  about  the  meanest  feeling 
*  feller  can  have — begging  your  pardon  for  caning 
you  a  feller.  Don't  I  know  how  it  feels?  Every 
time  there's  any  political  move  on  don't  they  all  watch 


156  THE   GREEN   VASE 

me  as  if  I  was  a  menace  to  the  public  peace,  just 
setting  in  my  room  devising  tricks  to  plunder  the  city, 
when  they  all  know,  way  deep  in  their  minds,  that 
I'm  as  innocent  as  a  blasted  lamb.  But  I  got  used 
to  it — just  as  you  will.  When  I  feel  inclined  to 
get  to  ruminating  over  it  I  just  says  to  myself,  '  Let 
'em  watch.  There's  nothing  they  can  find.  My  con- 
science is  easy,  and  if  the  poor  things  can  get  so  all- 
fired  much  pleasure  by  guessing  nonsense  about  things 
they  know  ain't  true — why,  just  let  'em  guess.'  Then 
I  just  naturally  don't  care  a  durn  more  about  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  built  to  take  things  so  philo- 
sophically." 

"  No?  Well,  women  ain't,  as  a  general  rule,  but 
I  guessed  you  might  be  different.  It's  their  nature  to 
take  things  hard — even  good  advice.  Now,  f'r  in- 
stance, when  Mrs.  Jennings  was  talking  about  you 
last  evening  I  told  her  just  about  what  I've  told  you 
— about  me  being  watched  and  what  I  thought.  And 
she — well,  she  sure  took  it  hard." 

Helen  could  not  help  laughing.  "  That  was  how 
Henry  happened  to  meet  you  in  the  Park?  " 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that?  Now,  that  isn't  what  I 
call  real  neighbourly — to  give  away  a  fellow-man. 
But,  nevertheless,  since  you  know  about  that,  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  in  the  present  uncertain  condi- 


HELEN  157 

tion  of  the  weather  I  wouldn't  overly  like  to  be  seen 
talking  to  you  on  the  street  corner."  His  eyes 
twinkled  as  he  said  it. 

"  You  need  not  worry,"  she  said.  "  Personal  in- 
spection, except  accidentally,  does  not  extend  beyond 
the  Park." 

"  That's  true.  They  haven't  done  anything  more 
to  you,  have  they?  " 

"  Only  to  call  a  meeting  and  expel  me  from  the 
Club.  And  by  a  standing  vote,  too.  Is  that  very 
terrible — a  standing  vote  ?  " 

"Now  I  call  that  rubbing  it  in,"  he  said  angrily; 
"  you  mean  from  the  S.  B.  L.  T.  M.  I.  I.  S.,  don't 
you?  It  took  me  quite  several  years  to  learn  that. 
But  I  guess  you're  bearing  up,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "  I  seem  to  be 
bearing  up.  I'm  going  to  Boston  to  forget  all  about 
it.  Here  comes  my  car  at  last." 

"You're  not  going  by  trolley?  I  wouldn't  do 
that,  Mrs.  Murphy.  It  might  be  safe,  but  then 
again  it  mightn't.  I  don't  believe  Henry  would 
like  it." 

"  So  he  told  me,  Mr.  Jennings;  but  I  must  go  to 
Boston  and  I  can't  walk." 

"  Why  not  take  a  cab  ?  " 

"  It's  too  expensive — and  I  have  not  time." 


i58  THE   GREEN  VASE 

"  Then  let  me  go  along  with  you,"  he  cried,  as  she 
stepped  into  the  street  to  hail  the  car. 

"  And  lose  your  hold  on  the  strikers  by  riding  in 
a  car  managed  by  strike-breakers?  No,  Mr.  Jen- 
nings. Please.  I  should  rather  be  alone." 

"  By  gosh,"  he  muttered  as  the  car  moved  away. 
"  If  women  don't  beat  all.  Anyhow,  I  guess  there 
ain't  any  real  danger.  And  now  for  a  pleasant  family 
reunion  with  Mrs.  J." 


CHAPTER  XI 

STEPHEN  rose  that  morning  after  a  night  of  mental 
and  moral  torture.  At  one  moment  he  resolved  never 
to  see  her  again — at  least  not  for  a  year.  Then  the 
time  was  cut  down,  and  down,  until  he  was  convinced 
that  the  only  strong  course  would  be  to  see  her  im- 
mediately to  show  her  that  he  could  be  a  man.  At 
that  point  he  always  switched  on  the  light  to  look 
at  his  watch.  Again  he  contemplated  flight — abroad 
— to  Africa — anywhere  that  forgetfulness  might  be 
found.  At  such  moments  he  was  obsessed  with  a 
deep-lying  anger  against  Helen,  that  she  had  brought 
him  to  such  a  state.  Or  again  he  slept  fitfully — only 
to  dream  of  her — until  some  horror  dragged  her 
away  and  he  woke,  coughing,  sometimes  almost 
strangling,  it  seemed. 

Soon  after  six  he  was  out  of  bed  and  roaming 
about  the  still  quiet  house  in  his  pyjamas.  A  cold 
shower  calmed  him  a  little,  so  that  he  looked  less 
haggard  when  he  demanded  breakfast  from  the 
startled  Spriggs  an  hour  later.  After  breakfast  a 
reckless  gallop  through  the  Parkway  so  much  further 
restored  his  mental  equilibrium  that  when  he  entered 

159 


160  THE   GREEN   VASE 

his  office,  as  usual  punctually  at  nine,  his  stenographer 
noticed  nothing  out  of  the  way.  Like  Helen  he  found 
temporary  forgetfulness,  or  better,  temporary  obscur- 
ing of  the  more  active  portion  of  his  mind,  in  the 
anaesthesia  of  routine  duties.  He  found  to  his  sur- 
prise that  he  could  devote  himself,  apparently  as 
clearly  as  ever,  to  consideration  of  the  multifarious 
demands  of  his  customers.  But  always,  when  there 
came  a  cessation  of  work,  there  surged  up  the  im- 
perative question  of  what  he  should  do,  and  he  knew 
himself  as  far  from  decision  as  ever.  At  last  he 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  closed  his  desk.  "  I  am 
going  over  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Henry  Murphy,"  he 
said  to  a  clerk  as  he  passed  through  the  outer  office. 
"  If  anything  important  comes  up  you  may  telephone 
me  there,  during  the  next  half  hour;  and,  by  the  way, 
I  may  have  to  take  the  one  o'clock  train  for  New 
York,  in  which  case  I  shall  not  be  here  to-morrow." 

"  You  remember,  sir,  that  Mr.  Thompson  is  com- 
ing on  from  Chicago  to-morrow.  You  usually  see 
him  yourself." 

"  I  had  forgotten.  Well,  if  he  comes  and  cannot 
stay  a  couple  of  days  as  usual,  turn  him  over  to  Mr. 
Stuyvesant." 

As  he  walked  down  the  street  Stephen  marvelled 
at  himself.  He  thought  rather  grimly  of  a  little, 


HELEN  161 

exquisitely  embroidered  bookmark  his  grandmother 
had  worked  for  him  while  he  was  still  a  schoolboy 
and  which  he  carried  always  in  his  pocketbook — a 
narrow  slip  of  faded  ribbon  with  the  motto  "  Know 
Thyself."  It  had  been  his  monitor,  and  until  yester- 
day he  had  believed  that  he  had  fully  lived  up  to  its 
teaching.  To-day  he  was  a  stranger  to  himself.  He 
had  left  his  office  on  impulse,  said  he  might  go  to 
New  York,  on  impulse — he,  who  had  never  spent  a 
penny  without  due  consideration.  Moncrieff  was 
right  in  saying  that  the  man  in  control  only  of  the 
intellectual  part  of  himself  was  like  an  automobile 
run  by  a  mechanic  who  understood  perfectly  the  en- 
gine but  had  no  conception  of  the  steering  gear.  He 
felt  only  too  keenly  the  mad  indirection  of  that  sup- 
posedly excellent  machine,  himself. 

He  hurried,  as  he  walked,  and  at  the  same  time 
wondered  why  he  should  hurry,  except  that  he  was 
doing  everything  unreasonably.  Even  as  he  took  the 
elevator  to  Henry's  office  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  nothing  in  the  world  to  talk  about,  that  the  call 
would  only  uselessly  irritate  his  already  overstrained 
nerves.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  going  back, 
and  then  remembered  that  he  had  said  at  his  office 
where  he  was  to  be  and  that  a  telephone  message 
might  come  for  him.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  go 


162  THE   GREEN   VASE 

through  the  ordeal  of  explaining  anything  to  any- 
body. 

Henry  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  Stephen  knew  that 
anger  and  contempt  would  have  been  a  more  appro- 
priate reception.  "  You  are  a  busy  man,"  he  said 
quickly.  "  I  shall  not  keep  you  long." 

"  I  am  never  too  busy  to  see  you,"  Henry  replied, 
"  because  I  always  learn  something  worth  while.  Be- 
sides, I  particularly  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  I  suppose 
you  came  about  the  strike." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  vaguely,  "  about  the 
strike.  How  is  it?  " 

"  Bad,  damn  bad.  It's  got  beyond  us,  I  guess. 
Both  sides  are  out  for  blood  now,  and  I  must  admit 
at  last  I  don't  much  blame  the  company.  They've 
tried  and  they've  made  concessions.  Of  course  that 
fool  Staples  prejudiced  their  case,  but  still,  if  it  could 
have  been  settled  without  interference  it  would  have 
been.  Now,  with  these  union  representatives  making 
trouble  it  looks  as  though  there'd  be  the  devil  to 

pay." 

"Serious  trouble,  you  think?" 

"  It  looks  like  it — and  that  will  mean  every  news- 
paper in  the  city  against  the  strikers.  At  the  com- 
mencement they  had  public  sympathy." 

"  It  is  important,  I  suppose — public  sympathy?  " 


HELEN  163 

"  Important !  Of  course  it  is.  It's  nearly  the 
whole  game,  and  if  they  try  violence — as  they  will — 
every  one  will  cry  them  down.  What  were  they  work- 
ing for  at  first?  For  a  living  wage,  clean  houses, 
decency.  That  appeals  to  every  one.  Now  what  is 
it?  That  the  union  shall  dictate.  That  don't  appeal 
to  any  one — especially  when  the  car  service  is  almost 
at  a  standstill  and  self-respecting  women  don't  dare 
go  into  the  streets  of  an  evening.  And  now  they'll 
kill  for  what  they  want.  The  decent  fight  was  all 
used  up  on  the  decent  object." 

"  You  really  think  there  is  danger,  then?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think.  I  know  it.  Haven't  I  been 
telling  you  so  for  ten  minutes?  I  am  so  sure,  I  told 
Helen  she  must  not  think  of  coming  to  town  to-day. 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  Bond.  You  don't  seem 
a  bit  like  you  usually  do  this  morning." 

"  Don't  I?  It  must  be  hard  on  Mrs.  Murphy  to 
feel  that  she  must  not  leave  South  Boston.  I  don't 
believe  she  is  very  happy  there,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  she  isn't,"  Henry  answered  gloomily,  "  and 
I  wanted  to  get  your  advice  about  it — though  she 
said  I  mustn't.  She  isn't  happy  and  I  can't  see  why 
she  shouldn't  be." 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  she  should  be?  " 

"  Yes,  you  bet  there  is.    She  has  a  good  home,  with 


164  THE   GREEN   VASE 

every  comfort;  it's  in  the  best  location  in  South  Bos- 
ton, airy,  good  view,  and  easy  to  the  cars.  Mighty 
few  young  women  start  life  so  well.  What's  more, 
it's  a  first-rate  spot  to  bring  up  a  family  in." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  Stephen  interrupted  involuntarily. 
"  Don't  check  up  advantages  with  respect  to  possibili- 
ties. There  are  enough  horrible  actualities." 

"  A  man  must  think  of  the  future." 

"  To  be  sure  he  must,  but  never  to  the  extent  of 
letting  the  future  play  havoc  with  the  present.  Re- 
member that  the  future  is  built  on  the  past  and  that 
if  the  past  is  ruined  the  foundations  will  never  hold. 
South  Boston  will  not  have  many  advantages  as  a 
playground  if  there  is  no  mother  to  bring  children 
into  the  world." 

Henry  grew  very  pale  and  gripped  the  arms  of  his 
chair  until  the  veins  of  his  hands  stood  out  like  cords. 
"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  muttered. 

"  I  mean,"  Stephen  said  bitterly,  "  that  even  if  a 
woman  lives  in  a  palace,  where  the  life-giving  airs 
of  the  world  blow  through  the  chambers  and  where 
the  view  from  every  window  is  a  delight — that  woman 
will  still  starve  and  droop  and  die  without  appro- 
priate companionship.  She  may  lose  her  ideals  and 
live — in  the  companionship  of  servants.  Your  wife 
has  the  high,  pure  flame  that  flutters  toward  like 


HELEN  165 

flames  that  burn  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  her  equals. 
Quench  the  flame — starve  the  flame  that  is  in  her,  and 
you  have  killed  her — the  part  of  her,  at  least,  that 
makes  her  beautiful."  He  stopped  suddenly  and 
stood  up.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  talking  foolishly." 

"  I  guess  you  are,"  Henry  said  doubtfully.  "  It 
sounded  to  me  something  like  the  rot  we  had  to  read 
in  school.  But  I  did  gather  that  you  thought  I  ought 
to  take  Helen  away  from  South  Boston — too  much 
water  there  for  her  '  fluttering  flame  '  or  something 
of  that  sort.  Was  that  right?  " 

Stephen  walked  up  and  down  the  room  before  an- 
swering. "  Yes.  I  am  tired,  Murphy.  Things  seem 
to  get  on  my  nerves  and  I  never  knew  I  had  any 
nerves.  I  will  try  to  be  understandable  in  giving 
advice  that  I  have  no  right  to  give.  Mrs.  Murphy 
is  a  peculiarly  fine  and  sensitive  woman.  She  is  lonely 
because  there  is  no  one  with  whom  she  can  associate, 
and  women,  far  more  than  men,  are  dependent  on 
companionship.  That  terrible  thing  that  happened 
yesterday  with  Moncrieff — well,  it  seems  to  me  final. 
No  husband  can  have  the  right  to  risk  the  repetition 
of  such  an  ordeal." 

"  Did  Helen  tell  you  about  it?" 

"  No,  Moncrieff  did." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  heard  about  it.     As  to  moving, 


166  THE    GREEN   VASE 

you  don't  understand  the  practical  difficulties.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  want  the  people  in  South  Boston  to 
think  we  were  scared,  and  turned  tail  and  ran.  I  want 
Helen  to  live  it  down,  to  make  those  people  respect 
her." 

"  What  does  she  care  for  their  opinion?  " 

"  She  ought  to  care  for  the  opinion  of  all  respecta- 
ble people.  No  man  and  no  woman  can  afford  to  go 
without  it." 

"  And  so,  for  fear  of  risking  the  bad  opinion  of 
the  Jenningses  and  their  kind  you  are  willing  to  ruin 
the  health  and  the  happiness  of  your  wife,  who  is  so 
much  above  them  that  she  ought  not  even  to  know 
they  exist " 

"  That's  about  enough,"  Henry  interrupted  an- 
grily. "  It  appears  to  me  that  you're  making  out  a 
mighty  poor  case  because  you  underestimate  my  wife. 
She's  not  such  a  weakling  as  you  think.  It's  true,  she 
was  upset  this  morning,"  he  added  a  little  less  confi- 
dently. "  But  a  year  from  now,  when  she  has  made 
good  with  the  people  you  despise  so  much,  nobody 
will  be  gladder  than  her  that  she  stuck  it  out." 

"  Made  good,"  Stephen  echoed.  "  She  will  never 
make  good  with  them  because  they  are  incapable  of 
understanding  her.  The  longer  you  stay  the  nastier 
will  be  their  gossip " 


HELEN  167 

"  Perhaps  there  wouldn't  be  as  much  of  that  if  you 
hung  around  a  little  less." 

Stephen  sprang  to  his  feet.  '  That  remark  was 
quite  unnecessary,  Murphy,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  not 
trouble  her  again  with  my  unwelcome  attentions.  But 
mark  my  words,  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Murphy  can 
stand  just  so  much  vulgarity  and  no  more.  She  is 
already  bent  far  under  this  load.  Be  careful  that  she 
does  not  break."  He  took  his  hat  and  strode  from 
the  room,  glancing  once,  as  he  passed  through  the 
door,  at  Henry,  who  sat  at  his  desk,  his  head  bent, 
thinking. 

As  he  walked  along  the  street  toward  his  own 
office  Stephen  felt  the  old  doubts  return,  the  old 
questions  clamouring  for  an  answer.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  thought  of  himself  as  adrift,  without 
a  compass.  He  remembered  suddenly  a  story  that 
a  friend  had  told  him  of  some  foreigners  who  were 
racing  in  American  waters,  against  American  boats. 
"  I  found,"  the  man  had  said,  "  that  they  were  racing 
without  a  compass.  I  offered  to  lend  them  mine. 
4  Oh,  no,'  they  answered,  '  we  can  just  follow  the 
American  boats.'  But,"  his  friend  had  added  as  he 
passed  them  the  compass,  "  you  must  take  it,  anyhow. 
If  the  good  Lord  should  let  you  get  ahead,  what 
in  the  devil  would  you  do?  "  For  him  there  was  no 


i68  THE    GREEN   VASE 

friend  with  a  compass,  and  had  there  been  he  could 
not  have  used  it.  He  was  sailing  through  uncharted 
seas  and  the  magnet  of  conscious  virtue  which  had 
always  been  his  guide  had  failed  him.  Helen  was 
the  only  magnet  in  his  life  now  and  to  her  influence 
only  he  responded. 

In  obedience  to  this  he  took  a  car — there  were  very 
few  passing — to  South  Boston.  It  was  not  to  be 
nearer  her,  he  argued,  but  to  study  the  strike  where 
it  was  known  to  be  most  virulent.  Perhaps  he  would 
see  again  the  mad-eyed  giant  who  had  ordered  him 
off  the  bridge  the  night  before.  From  him  he  might 
get  news.  At  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Dorchester 
Avenue  he  continued  on  foot.  The  street  was  almost 
deserted,  except  for  occasional  groups  of  unkempt 
men  who  dispersed,  or  fell  into  a  sullen  silence,  at 
his  approach.  Among  them  he  recognised  the  faces 
of  conductors  who  had  taken  his  fare  in  the  past. 
They  glowered  at  the  cars  that  occasionally  went  by, 
and  once  or  twice  he  saw  a  brick  hurled,  half- 
heartedly, and  falling  short  of  its  mark.  There  was 
something  horrible  in  the  Sunday  quiet,  in  the  aspect 
of  the  shops  that  looked  as  though  they  had  retreated 
into  back  rooms,  in  the  utter  absence  of  children's 
voices.  It  was  as  though  the  world  were  holding  its 
breath  as  it  watched  the  cars,  magnified  into  senseless 


HELEN  169 

importance,  crawling  back  and  forth.  He  thought 
of  Helen,  sitting  lonely  in  her  house,  and  in  the 
leaden  silence  and  emptiness  even  she  seemed  to 
shrink. 

And  then  he  saw  her.  She  was  sitting  in  the  third 
seat  of  an  open  car — almost  the  only  passenger — 
and  she  was  staring  ahead,  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts,  pitifully  unconscious  of  the  mute  emptiness 
of  the  world.  "  Perhaps,"  Stephen  thought,  "  it 
matches  only  too  well  her  own  blank  vision."  From 
a  group  of  strikers  near  him  he  heard  a  gruff  voice 
remark,  somewhat  anxiously,  he  thought,  "Two 
women  on  that  car,"  and  the  answer,  "  If  they're 
such  damn  fools  they've  got  to  take  the  consequences." 

The  meaningless,  but  in  some  way  significant  words, 
stung  him  to  instant  action.  He  dashed  into  the 
street,  caught  the  car,  and  swung  himself  aboard. 

"  You !  "  Helen  cried,  startled  from  her  apathy. 

He  could  not  speak  for  a  moment,  the  sudden  ex- 
ertion making  him  cough  and  breathe  hard.  "  I 
thought — Murphy  told  me — that  you  would  not  ride 
on  the  cars  to-day." 

"Is  there  real  danger?"  she  questioned,  her  eyes 
opening  suddenly  very  wide. 

<r  I  think  so.    I  don't  know  what.    It's  in  the  air." 

She  looked  around,  as  though  to  see  for  herself 


i7o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

what  he  meant,  realised  the  deserted  streets,  the 
groups  of  men  who  watched  them  curiously  as  they 
passed,  and  shivered.  "  If  there  is  danger,  why  are 
you  here?  " 

"  I  saw  you." 

"  But  why  are  you  in  South  Boston  at  all?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  was  looking  over  the  ground. 
Perhaps  I  wanted  to  be  near  in  case  of  trouble." 

"  That  is  Henry's  place." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  don't  need  to  remind  me. 
But  he  thought  you  would  stay  in  the  house  all  day.'' 

"And  you  did  not?" 

"  It  seems  now  as  though  I  knew  you  would  not. 
At  the  time — I  just  let  myself  go  where  instinct  led 
me." 

"  You  said  last  night " 

"  Yes,  I  have  gone  back  on  my  word.  But  I  did 
not  set  out  meaning  to  see  you.  I'm  not  sorry." 

The  car  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Dorchester  Ave- 
nue to  take  on  passengers,  eight  or  ten  of  them.  As 
it  was  about  to  start  a  man  tore  himself  from  the 
grasp  of  his  mates  on  the  sidewalk  and  sprang  to 
the  car.  He  caught  Helen's  dress  and  pulled  her. 
"  Get  out,"  he  cried  roughly,  "  I  won't  have  you 
here!" 

Helen  drew  away  from  him,  terrified.     He  was 


HELEN  171 

hatless  and  coatless.  His  hair  was  a  tangled  mass, 
his  face  was  stained  with  dirt,  and  his  shirt,  torn 
open  at  the  neck,  showed  his  great  hairy  chest. 

He  pulled  Helen  again,  almost  tearing  her  dress, 
and  crying  over  and  over,  "  Get  out!  Get  out!  " 

Stephen,  raging  with  a  sudden  fury,  leaned  across 
her  and  struck  the  man  in  the  face.  The  blow 
knocked  him  from  the  running  board,  and,  as  the 
car  was  already  moving,  he  fell  heavily  into  the 
street.  Women  screamed.  Every  one,  except  Helen, 
stood  up  to  see  what  would  happen,  but  to  the  sur- 
prise of  every  one  the  strikers,  instead  of  following, 
picked  up  their  fallen  comrade  and  drew  back  to  the 
sidewalk,  where  they  stood,  silently,  watching  the 
car  as  it  sped  toward  the  bridge. 

Stephen  sat  down  and  wiped  his  hands.  "  The 
brute!  "  he  said.  "  Did  he  hurt  you?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  after  a  moment.  "  He  did 
not  hurt  me — but  I  am  horribly  afraid.  That  was 
O'Leary,  I  think — you  remember — who  had  dinner 
at  our  house  weeks  ago." 

"  O'Leary?  He  didn't  see  me,  I  think.  And  why 
should  he  act  like  such  a  brute?  I  thought  he  was 
a  very  decent  fellow." 

"  I  don't  know — but  I'm  afraid — horribly  afraid, 
I  tell  you.  I  want  to  get  out.  Come,  please  come." 


172  THE   GREEN   VASE 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks.  "  Oh, 
why  isn't  Henry  here.  He  would  take  me  away. 
He  always  knows  what  to  do."  She  stood  up,  but 
Stephen  caught  her  to  prevent  her  from  jumping  from 
the  swiftly  moving  car. 

She  struggled  to  free  herself,  and  then  stiffened  as 
a  deep  roar  shattered  the  air.  "  The  bridge !  "  some 
one  screamed.  The  whole  structure  seemed  to  crum- 
ble away.  The  car  rose  bodily,  tipped  forward,  hung 
quivering  a  moment,  then  plunged  through  the  great 
rent  in  the  pavement  down  to  the  brown  water. 


BOOK  II 
STEPHEN 


CHAPTER   XII 

IT  was  late  summer.  Stephen  sat  at  the  desk  in  his 
office  reading  the  morning  paper.  He  was  very  pale, 
almost  grey,  in  startling  contrast  to  the  clerks,  who 
were  brown,  with  a  normal  summer's  tan.  His 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  his  sunken  eyes  were  dull  and 
lifeless.  He  looked  up  wearily  as  his  partner  entered 
the  room. 

Mr.  Stuyvesant  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  smooth- 
shaven,  with  iron-grey  hair,  tall  and  lean,  but  quiv- 
ering with  life.  He  was  always  immaculate  in  his 
dress,  bordering  on  the  dandy,  his  friends  told  him, 
but  was  too  thoroughly  masculine  ever  to  be  called 
effeminate.  He  patted  Stephen  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder  as  he  sat  down.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  old 
man,"  he  said,  "  seriously." 

Stephen  smiled.    "  Fire  away." 

"  I  don't  know  quite  how  to  begin.  It  is  hard  to 
tell  a  fellow  you  like  that  he  looks  like  hell — but  you 
do." 

"  I  have  had  a  suspicion  of  that  for  some  time 
myself,"  Stephen  answered  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

175 


176  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  But   I   never   considered   myself   an   Adonis,   you 
know." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  personal  beauty,  my  boy,  it's 
a  matter  of  health." 

"  Oh,  as  to  health — I  am  well  enough.  Trained 
down  a  little  fine,  perhaps." 

"  That's  rot.  No  man  who  sits  at  his  desk  all  day 
and  coughs,  is  well.  It  doesn't  take  a  doctor  to  tell 
you  that." 

"  I  have  always  had  a  cough.  It  is  nothing  but 
an  irritation  in  the  throat." 

'  Yes,  that  comes  from  trouble  lower  down.  You 
ought  to  take  a  vacation,  out  in  the  open  air." 

"  I  did  take  a  vacation  last  June — for  a  month." 

"  But  where?  You  disappear  without  giving  any 
warning  except  that  you  might  take  the  one  o'clock  to 
New  York — and  the  day  at  that  of  our  beastly  bridge 
explosion."  Stephen  let  fall  the  paper-weight  he  held 
in  his  hand  and  stoopd  to  pick  it  up,  coughing  vio- 
lently in  consequence.  "  Yes,  and  no  word  for  a 
week — then  only  a  line  that  you  are  not  well  and  will 
stay  away  two  or  three  weeks.  You  send  no  address. 
You  come  back  at  last  looking  as  though  you  had 
been  through  the  third  degree  and  then  stick  to  your 
desk  all  through  the  hot  weather  while  I  am  abroad." 

"  I  always  went  away  from  Friday  to  Monday." 


STEPHEN  177 

"  Yes.  To  New  York.  The  Lord  knows  there 
isn't  any  open  air  there.  I  am  worried  about  you, 
Steve,  genuinely  worried.  Will  you  see  a  doctor?" 

"  No,  I  will  not." 

"  Will  you  take  a  month  off?  " 

Stephen  hesitated.  "  Perhaps  I  will.  I'll  tell  you 
to-morrow." 

"  Good — so  long  as  you  decide  to  do  it.  Go  to 
Canada  shooting,  or  West — New  York  won't  do  you 
any  good." 

"  If  I  go  I  promise  not  to  stay  in  New  York," 
Stephen  answered. 

"All  right.  That's  something  accomplished. 
Now  I  must  beat  it  for  the  stock  exchange.  Be  good 
to  yourself." 

Left  alone  Stephen  began  once  more  his  mechanical 
reading  of  the  newspaper.  But  suddenly  his  apathy 
gave  way  to  an  alert  attention.  The  article  that 
caught  his  eye  was  headed,  "  Strange  and  Improbable 
Echo  of  the  Bridge  Disaster.  Story  told  by  sailor 
may  have  bearing  on  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  the  body  of  Mrs.  Murphy."  Stephen  laid  the 
paper  on  the  desk,  and  supporting  his  head  in  his 
hands  read  rapidly.  "  The  London  Standard  this 
morning  prints  the  following  article :  A  sailor  off  the 
ship  Constance  from  New  York  and  Boston  has  an 


i78  THE   GREEN   VASE 

extraordinary  story  to  tell  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
who  were  rescued  from  the  water  immediately  after 
the  famous  blowing  up  of  a  bridge  in  Boston,  U.  S. 
A.,  last  June,  a  disaster,  it  will  be  remembered,  which 
was  the  culmination  of  the  great  strike  of  the  em- 
ployees of  the  street  railway  company  in  that  city.  It 
appears,  from  the  sailor's  story,  that  the  Constance 
had  her  clearance  papers  and  was  proceeding  down 
the  harbour  when  the  explosion  occurred,  well  within 
sight  of  the  ship.  Some  few  minutes  later,  the  tide 
running  strongly  in  their  direction,  a  man  was  made 
out  in  the  water,  supporting  the  unconscious  form  of 
a  woman.  A  boat  was  immediately  lowered  and  the 
two  taken  aboard.  The  captain,  much  irritated  at 
a  possible  delay  and  inquest,  was  only  too  glad  to 
proceed  immediately  on  his  way  to  New  York.  The 
man,  who  gave  his  name  as  Fales,  resident  in  New 
York,  said  that  he  and  his  wife  were  rowing  when 
the  explosion  occurred,  and  that  a  block  of  stone  de- 
molished the  boat  and  injured  the  woman.  As  the 
Constance  carries  a  doctor,  this  Fales  was  only  too 
glad  to  proceed  immediately  to  New  York,  hoping 
so  to  escape  the  publicity  that  would  be  forced  upon 
him  by  the  American  press.  On  reaching  New  York, 
the  sailor  asserted,  the  man,  Fales,  had  his  wife  re- 
rmyyed  in  an  ambulance,  leaving  as  an  address  a 


STEPHEN  179 

well-known  hotel.  The  sailor,  who  claims  that  he  was 
in  command  of  the  boat  that  rescued  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fales,  asserted  that  he  afterward  called  at  the  hotel, 
but  could  find  no  trace  of  the  people  in  question. 
Unfortunately  the  captain  of  the  Constance  died  on 
the  voyage  to  England,  and  before  the  sailor  became 
loquacious  the  ship  had  sailed  on  her  return  voyage 
to  America."  The  editor  then  continued  in  his  own 
words.  "  This  story  seems  to  us  in  all  probability 
the  invention  of  a  man  thirsting  for  notoriety.  It  is 
unlikely  that  the  destruction  of  a  rowboat  would  have 
escaped  the  notice  of  the  hundreds  who  claim  to  have 
witnessed  the  disaster.  The  only  point  worthy  of 
note  is  that  one  body,  that  of  Mrs.  Murphy,  is  known 
not  to  have  been  recovered,  and  that,  as  Mr.  O'Leary 
testified,  a  man  was  sitting  next  her  when  the  car 
approached  the  bridge.  Who  this  man  was,  or 
whether  his  body  was  one  of  those  recovered,  will 
never  be  known.  On  the  whole,  the  story  may  well 
be  put  down  as  fictional,  although  naturally  exam- 
ination of  the  facts  should  be  made  when  the  Con- 
stance again  reaches  America." 

Stephen  sat  for  a  long  time,  his  head  still  resting 
in  his  hands,  staring  blindly  at  the  paper.  The 
crude  account,  by  its  omissions  as  well  as  by  what  it 
actually  told,  brought  back  with  terrifying  vividness 


i8o  THE   GREEN   VASE 


all  the  details  of  that  hideous  morning.  )f  its  possi- 
ble import  to  him,  to-day,  over  three  months  later, 
he  took  no  account.  Its  only  effect  was  to  set  once 
more  in  motion  the  pitilessly  final  procession  of  events. 
At  the  beginning  they  were  chaotic  —  a  bewilderment 
of  noise,  of  falling,  of  struggling  in  the  water.  He 
had  believed  it  was  death,  and  his  only  endeavour 
had  been  to  hold  fast  to  Helen.  The  first  clear  im- 
pression had  been  one  of  wonder  when  he  found  his 
head  above  water  and  looked  down  at  the  face  be- 
side him,  white  except  for  the  blood  that  trickled  from 
a  deep  gash  in  the  forehead,  apparently  the  face  of 
a  dead  woman.  Then  the  rescue,  when  he  laid  her, 
still  living  the  doctor  told  him,  on  a  seat  in  the  cabin 
of  the  ship.  Only  then,  as  he  looked  down  on  her 
unconscious  form,  had  the  desperate  longing  and 
hopelessness  of  the  past  weeks  suddenly  culminated 
in  decisive  action.  With  reason  in  complete  abey- 
ance, he  had  been  conscious  only  of  an  impelling  need 
of  her.  Was  her  life  not  owing  to  him,  and  therefore 
his,  to  do  with  as  he  would.  He  had  not  thought. 
The  arrangement  with  the  captain  to  take  them  to 
New  York  had  not  looked  beyond  the  moment.  The 
future  must  take  care  of  itself.  And  he  had  never 
had  a  regret  —  he  was  sure  of  that.  During  all  the 
we£ks  that  he  had  watched  her  as  she  lay  unconscious 


STEPHEN  181 

— on  the  ship,  and  later  in  the  little  cottage  he  had 
taken  in  a  secluded  village  in  Jersey — all  the  time 
he  was  glad.  It  had  been  a  long,  bitter  fight  with 
death.  The  necessity  of  work  for  her,  when  he  was 
with  her,  of  planning  for  her  when  he  had  to  be  in 
Boston,  had  kept  him  from  thinking — much — of  her 
awakening.  It  might  come  at  any  time  now,  the 
doctors  said — must  indeed  come  soon  if  it  came  at 
all.  They  had  warned  him  of  the  possibilities — mad- 
ness or  idiocy  or  obliteration  of  the  past.  He  had 
taken  it  all  stoically,  they  thought — but  they  did  not 
know  what  joy  there  was  in  his  heart  at  what  seemed 
to  them  so  dreadful.  If  she  woke  herself — well,  it 
did  not  seem  possible  that  she  could  take  any  other 
point  of  view  than  his  because  to  him  it  was  so  obvi- 
ous. But  deep  down  in  him  there  was  a  conscious- 
ness that  remembered  her  cry,  "  If  Henry  were  only 
here !  "  He  preferred  that  it  should  not  be  an  issue, 
sure  as  he  was  of  success.  If  she  had  lost  her  mind? 
He  could  look  on  that  possibility  with  equanimity, 
even  if  with  profound  sorrow,  because  he  Had  found 
that  his  love  for  Helen  was  not  an  extraneous  thing, 
dependent  on  any  conditions.  He  did  not  love  in 
that  way.  Rather  was  his  love  an  outbreathing  of 
himself,  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  life.  He  couldj 
therefore,  give  himself  up  to  an  endless  care  of  her 


THE: 


X  VASE 


iwimmi"' 
sine  infaidi: 


:  -    -  ^  :i: 

3fi  ni% 

U  -tinr  -H 

me 


rnrr  ne  TTSSOE.. 

ICIL"      5HHUimr  JJ 


••dl 

::f  3E 


"    '  __ 

."1.:      .    .•_.     V. 
HBH 


ugn 


• .-   .:.  -  :.-. 


iinru  uiTixi 

~L      ii .T.L      '".;;  ~~-      ;..;. 


1 84  THE    GREEN   VASE 

I  did  not  understand  her — perhaps  not  as  well  as  you 
did.  She  was  too  fine  for  me — then.  I  might  have 
grown  to  her — because  I  loved  her  so  much." 

41  So  did  I." 

"You?" 

"  Yes,  I.  We  can  never  understand  each  other 
unless  you  know  that.  I  should  never  have  told  you 
— before  the  accident.  But  now  you  ought  to  know." 

"  You  loved  her,  even  though  she  was  my  wife?  " 

"  I  did.  I  could  not  help  the  accident  that  she 
was  your  wife."  He  talked  brokenly  because  his 
breath  was  short. 

"Did  Helen  know  this?" 

11  She  knew  it." 

"  And  did  she Oh,  no,  I  cannot  ask  that. 

Life  holds  little  enough  as  it  is." 

"  She  did  not  love  me,"  Stephen  interposed  quickly. 
At  the  cost  of  a  lie  he  would  gladly  have  given  that 
solace  to  the  suffering  man.  The  truth  was  harder 
to  tell,  but  he  told  it.  "  She  loved  you — only  you. 
That  was  my  tragedy.  She  liked  me,  for  myself,  I 
think — but  she  held  to  me  only  because  I  was  a  repre- 
sentative, as  it  happened,  of  the  people  with  whom 
she  belonged." 

Henry  leaned  forward  and  put  his  hand  over 
Stephen's,  "  Thank  you,  Bond,"  he  said  in  a  quiver-! 


STEPHEN  185 

ing  voice.  "  It  was  hard  for  you  to  tell  me  that. 
That's  how  I  know  it's  true.  The  future  looks  pretty 
dark  to  me  sometimes,  without  Helen,  but  I  always 
have  her  love  to  remember  and  that  gives  me  a  pur- 
pose— to  make  myself  more  like  her,  more  like  she 
wanted  me  to  be.  And  if  the  memory  of  her  love 
had  been  taken  away — well,  there  wouldn't  have  been 
much  to  make  the  struggle  worth  the  price,  would 
there?  If  I  had  thought  she  was  false  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly have  believed  any  one.  That's  why  I  thank 
you." 

Stephen  looked  at  him  searchingly.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  already  the  man's  face  was  finer,  that  he 
was  reaching  out  toward  appreciation  of  the  more 
delicate  things  of  life.  Almost  overpoweringly  he 
realised  that  Henry  had  always  been  a  better  man 
than  he,  that  now  he  was  beating  out  for  himself, 
inch  by  inch,  a  knowledge  of  those  things  which  were 
instinctive  with  those  fortunate  enough  to  be  gentle 
born,  and  that  when  he  had  succeeded  he  would  be 
not  only  a  better,  but  a  finer  man.  And  if  a  finer 

man,  a  fitter  mate  for  Helen But  no — that  was 

not  a  possible  question.  She  was  no  longer  Mrs. 
Murphy,  and  this  man,  Henry  Murphy,  had  no  more 
claim  on  her  than  any  other.  He  himself  believed 
his  wife  to  be  dead — and  she  was.  Mrs.  Murphy  had 


i86  THE    GREEN   VASE 

been  killed  in  the  bridge  explosion  on  June  1 6th  and 
her  body  had  never  been  recovered.  The  white-faced, 
scarred,  unconscious  woman  in  the  little  New  Jersey 
town  was  a  quite  different  person,  the  wife,  not  yet 
publicly  acknowledged,  of  Mr.  Stephen  Bond. 

To  Stephen  there  was  no  doubt  of  this,  yet  his 
intellect  liked  to  play  with  the  question,  especially 
now,  with  the  man  who  might,  if  he  knew,  put  in 
some  preposterous  claim.  "  Much  as  she  loved  you, 
however,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  believe  she  would  have 
been  able  to  bear,  indefinitely,  the  life  she  was  living. 
She  might  not  have  ceased  to  love  you,  but  I  think 
she  would  have  left  you.  The  incessant  irritation  of 
her  surroundings,  the  absolute  contradiction  of  every 
instinct  of  her  real  self,  would  gradually  have  broken 
her  power  of  resistance." 

"  Of  resistance  to  what?  " 

"  To  me,  for  example."  Stephen  smiled.  "  After 
the  accident,  I  realised  that  the  point  had  nearly  been 
reached  where  I  should  have  thrown  prudence  and  de- 
cency— as  the  world  considers  decency — to  the  winds. 
And  I  could  have  offered  her  everything  that  you  de- 
nied her." 

"  You  could  have  offered  her  nothing,  except  regret 
and  sorrow,"  Henry  said  sharply.  "  But  if  she  had 
been  blinded  as  you  were,  I  think,  after  a  time,  I 


STEPHEN  187 

should  have  understood — as  I  understood  many  things 
when  it  was  too  late." 

"  What  should  you  have  done?  " 

"  I  should  have  asked  her  to  come  home — and  she 
would  have  come." 

Stephen  started.     "  What  makes  you  think  that?  " 

"  Because  she  loved  me  and  would  always  have 
loved  me."  He  said  it  quite  simply,  as  admitting 
of  no  argument.  "  But  why  discuss  such  questions? 
Impossible  as  they  are,  they  stain  Helen's  memory 
and  your  honour.  You  have  thought  about  it  so 
much  that  you  have  lost  the  sense  of  your  own  moral 
strength." 

"  No.  Instead,  the  accident  has  taught  me  that 
I  have  a  moral  strength  that  would  rise  above  the 
tenets  of  conventional  morality,  that  would  seize  for 
its  own  what  greater  love  and  greater  need  had  made 
its  own.  I  have  swept  aside  the  grave-clothes  of 
my  over-civilised  ancestors — cerements  of  convention- 
alised morality  that  each  generation  has  sought  to 
bind  about  its  descendants.  I  have  conquered  once 
more  my  heritage."  Stephen's  face  glowed  as  he 
talked.  He  stood  up,  erect,  looking  straight  ahead, 
as  though  into  the  eyes  of  a  vision.  '  You  have  had 
her  past.  Her  future  is  mine." 

Henry,  too,  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  looking 


i88  THE   GREEN   VASE 

into  Stephen's  shining  face.  The  tears  were  in  his 
own  eyes.  "  I  am  glad  you  told  me  that  you  loved 
her,"  he  said  gently.  "  The  love  of  two  good  men 
is  finer  than  the  love  of  one,  because  it  shows  the 
beauty  of  her  character,  that  could  inspire  such  love. 
Her  past,  as  you  say,  is  mine.  Her  future  " — his 
voice  trembled — "  you  have  a  right  to.  You  cannot 
take  away  my  memories,  nor  I  your  visions." 

"  You  say  that,"  Stephen  cried — "  even  you.  Then 
indeed  I  am  free.  Even  the  lingering  Puritan  in  me 
should  be  satisfied." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

As  he  stepped  into  the  worn  station  carriage  in  the 
little  New  Jersey  village  on  the  following  Friday 
evening  Stephen  drew  a  long  breath  of  happy  antici- 
pation. He  had  arranged  with  his  partner  to  be 
away  a  full  month.  The  details  of  that  month  had 
no  significance  for  him.  They  were  sunk  in  the  one 
great,  absorbing  fact  that  he  was  to  be  with  Helen 
— Helen,  his  wife.  He  had  no  misgivings  now  as 
to  the  ethics  of  the  situation. 

While  his  carriage  rattled  along  the  dark  road, 
however,  he  thought  of  little.  He  was  for  the  time 
a  truant,  setting  out  for  a  long  holiday  with  only 
a  single  companion,  the  best  of  all.  The  joys  of 
truancy,  in  the  days  stolen  from  school  so  long  ago, 
were  symbolic  of  the  more  vivid  joys  and  sorrows  of 
this  manly  truancy,  just  beginning,  and  reaching 
mistily  into  the  future,  with  only  the  rough  wall  of 
death  to  mark  their  end.  And  his  mind  strayed  back 
to  those  childhood  delights,  especially  to  one  mem- 
orable day  when  he  and  Katherine  Bland  stole  away 
in  the  night — much  such  a  night  as  this,  when  the 
full  moon  cast  long,  black,  fantastic  shadows  on  the 

189 


i9o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

grass — only  they  had  seen  it,  he  remembered,  just  be- 
fore dawn,  and  now  he  could  still  imagine  a  feeble 
yellow  glow  in  the  west.  They  had  climbed  to  a  hill- 
top to  watch  the  stars  go  out,  and  sitting  hand  in 
hand  had  shouted  their  welcome  to  the  sun.  On  what 
strange  peaks  might  not  he  and  Helen  watch  the 
pale  stars  swim  away  into  the  golden  radiance  of 
morning?  He  remembered  how,  with  Katherine, 
he  had  searched  the  woods  for  nuts  and  had  shaken 
the  last  red  apples  from  the  bough,  and  then  how 
they  had  spread  their  table  of  leaves  and  garnished 
it  with  fruit  for  breakfast,  and  that  she  had  told 
him,  while  she  made  everything  ready,  to  go  beyond 
the  clump  of  trees  to  bathe,  and  how  he  had  come 
back,  his  short  hair  dripping,  his  body  glowing  from 
the  cold  plunge,  and  had  kissed  her  shyly  before  they 
ate  their  food.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  he  was 
going  to  Helen,  with  all  the  generous,  pure-minded 
enthusiasm  of  a  boy.  So  vivid  was  the  impression 
that  he  felt  a  glow  like  that  after  the  cold  plunge 
of  long  ago;  so  vivid  that  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  to  feel  whether  his  hair  might  not  be  drip- 
ping wet.  He  laughed  as  he  did  it,  light-heartedly, 
as  he  might  have  laughed  at  one  of  Katherine's  sal- 
lies. And  then  suddenly  he  remembered  the  ending 
of  their  day,  how  she  had  slipped  and  sprained  her 


STEPHEN  191 

ankle,  how  he  had  bound  it  with  long  blue  strips 
from  his  shirt,  wet  in  cold  brook  water,  and  how  he 
had  carried  her  the  last  mile  of  their  way,  singing, 
and  telling  her  brave  tales  to  make  her  forget  the 
pain.  Alas — his  long  day  with  Helen  had  begun  with 
trouble,  deep  trouble,  which  stories  of  the  troubadours 
could  not  reach.  But  he  laughed  at  the  augury.  Did 
it  not  surely  presage  a  happy  ending? 

Stephen  leaned  from  the  carriage  to  breathe  in 
the  clear,  cool  air.  It  had  lately  rained,  so  that  the 
moonlight  glistened  on  the  leaves.  He  saw  that  they 
were  approaching  the  house,  but  for  once  the  delight 
of  his  nearness  to  her  did  not  give  way  before  any 
foreboding  of  what  the  nurse  might  have  to  tell  him. 
Usually  there  had  been  the  haunting  fear  that  she 
might  be  worse,  or  the  almost  equal  terror  that  she 
had  regained  consciousness  and  that  her  first  cry 
would  be  like  her  last,  for  Henry.  Then  he  had 
longed  for  a  continuance  of  the  peace  of  her  uncon- 
sciousness. But  to-night  his  lingering  misgivings 
were  gone.  He  felt  himself  literally  the  primitive 
man  returning  triumphantly  to  his  mate. 

At  the  doorstep  he  sprang  from  the  carnage  and 
ran  like  a  boy  into  the  house.  In  the  hall  a  nurse 
was  waiting  for  him.  She  looked  frightened.  "  Any 
change?  "  he  asked. 


192  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  Yes.    She  is  conscious." 

"  Since  when?  "  There  was  a  catch  in  his  voice. 
This,  after  all,  was  the  real  test,  and  thank  God  he 
was  ready  to  meet  it. 

"  Since  morning." 

"And— her  mind?" 

u  The  doctor  will  tell  you.  Here  he  is."  The 
nurse  slipped  from  the  room  as  the  doctor  came  in. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Well?"  Stephen  said. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Bond,"  the  doctor  said.  "  Mrs. 
Bond  has  regained  consciousness — but  has  lost,  I  fear, 
her  memory." 

Stephen  did  sit  down  then,  very  suddenly,  his  knees 
refusing  to  support  him.  "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  It  is  not  nearly  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been," 
the  doctor  said.  "  I  warned  you  that  we  might  expect 
anything.  Mrs.  Bond  seems  perfectly  rational,  but 
she  remembers — nothing.  Her  accident  it  is  nat- 
ural that  she  should  forget,  but  she  does  not  remem- 
ber the  beginning  of  the  automobile  ride  that  ended 
so  disastrously.  She  had  to  ask — even  who  she  was. 
We  have  not  let  her  talk  much." 

"  She  remembers  nothing  of  her  past?  "  Stephen 
spoke  hoarsely,  but  what  the  doctor  mistook  for  pain 
was  really  the  birth-struggle  of  an  overwhelming  joy. 


STEPHEN  193 

"  Nothing,  so  far  we  know — since  her  childhood 
at  least.  We  have  not  questioned  her." 

"  She  remembers  nothing,"  Stephen  repeated  stu- 
pidly. "  Does  she  know — of  me?  " 

"  Yes.    We  had  to  tell  her  who  she  was." 

"  And  she  made  no  comment?  " 

"  None." 

"  She  did  not  ask  for  Henry?" 

"No.    Why  should  she?" 

"  She  used  to  call  me  that.  She  has  forgotten 
everything."  He  leaned  on  the  table,  and  letting  his 
head  fall  on  his  arms,  sobbed  uncontrollably,  heavy, 
racking  sobs,  that  were  the  bursting  forth  of  his  re- 
lief. Truly  the  world  was  his.  "  Will  her  memory 
ever  return?  "  he  added  suddenly. 

"  Probably  not,"  the  doctor  answered.  "  We 
don't  know  very  much  about  these  cases.  Another 

shock  might  do  it." 

"  That  she  must  never  have,"  Stephen  cried,  and 
then  he  coughed,  struggling  for  breath  and  clinging 
to  the  table  for  support. 

The  doctor  sprang  to  his  side  and  held  him  by  the 
shoulders.  When  the  fit  was  over  he  spoke  sternly. 
"  Mrs.  Bond  is  out  of  the  woods  now.  You  are  the 
real  patient  in  this  house.  I  believe  that  you  are 
sicker  to-day  than  she  is." 


194  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  Nonsense,"  Stephen  gasped.  "  It's  just  a  cough 
— nervous.  I've  had  it  all  my  life,  more  or  less.  A 
bit  worse  now,  perhaps,  from  worry.  Make  my 
wife  well  and  I  shall  give  no  more  trouble." 

"  That  is  simply  not  true,"  the  doctor  said,  "  you 
are  a  very  sick  man.  Won't  you  let  Dr.  Locke  run 
over  from  New  York  and  examine  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  Stephen  answered  irritably,  "  I  will  not. 
May  I  see  my  wife?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  let  you — but  I  don't 
want  to.  Your  coughing  will  be  bad  for  her.  What 
she  must  have  is  weeks  of  quiet,  affectionate  care,  out 
of  which  she  can  slowly  recreate  a  living  world.  You 
ought  to  be  the  one  to  give  it  to  her — but  you  can't, 
unless  you  are  looked  after  very  soon." 

"You  mean  that  I  shall  die?" 

"  Undoubtedly — unless  you  act  quickly." 

"  Good  Lord.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  that. 
Send  over  your  specialist  if  you  want.  I  can't  die, 
you  know.  That  would  be  too  ridiculous,  with  life 
just  beginning.  Now  may  I  see  Helen?  I  shall  not 
cough." 

The  doctor  led  him  upstairs.  "  You  will  be 
careful,"  he  said.  "  She  knows  you  are  coming, 
but  we  must  not  excite  her  more  than  we  can 
help." 


STEPHEN  195 

Stephen  nodded  as  he  passed  into  the  dimly  lighted 
room. 

Helen  was  in  her  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows  so 
that  she  seemed  to  be  reclining  on  a  sofa.  Her  fore- 
head was  still  bandaged,  but  her  hair,  in  two  heavy, 
gold-red  braids,  was  brought  over  her  shoulders  and 
lay  along  her  body  like  the  revers  of  some  magnificent 
coat.  For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her,  tears 
in  his  eyes  and  his  lips  trembling.  If  he  had  loved 
her  when  she  was  unconscious,  how  much  more  he 
loved  her  now.  He  went  softly  across  the  room, 
and  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  took  her  fragile  hand 
in  his  and  kissed  it. 

"  So  this  is  you,  Stephen,"  she  said  at  last.  Her 
voice  was  low  but  clear,  and  Stephen  thought  he  had 
never  heard  such  music.  "  My  husband — whom  I  do 
not  know." 

He  put  his  head  down,  leaning  his  cheek  against  her 
hand,  but  even  the  touch  of  her  could  not  keep  him 
so.  He  raised  his  head  to  look  at  her  again,  to  gaze 
speechlessly  into  the  beautiful,  innocent  mystery  of 
her  eyes.  They  were  pure,  like  the  eyes  of  a  child 
who  has  yet  to  learn  the  world's  evil,  and  its  good. 
They  were  ready  to  love,  but  did  not  know  what  love 
meant. 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  brushed  back  the  hair 


196  THE   GREEN   VASE 

from  his  forehead.  The  caress,  the  first  she  had 
ever  given  him,  made  him  tremble  as  though  in  a 
fever.  "  You  have  been  very  good  to  me  all  these 
weeks,"  she  said  gently. 

He  found  his  words  at  last.  "  It  is  not  goodness 
to  fulfil  one's  own  greatest  happiness,  and  that,  my 
darling,  is  to  be  with  you." 

"  That  is  sweet  of  you  to  say,  but  I  was  not  here. 
I  was  away  somewhere,  dreaming,  I  don't  know 
what." 

"  But  you  were  always  near.  I  felt  that.  Your 
spirit  was  resting,  growing  as  it  rested  into  new 
strength  to  take  up  the  problems  of  life  again." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered.  "  And  yet  I  am  very 
ignorant.  It  hurts  me  when  I  try  to  remember.  I 
have  so  much  to  learn — everything." 

"  But  I  am  here  to  teach  you.  To  think  that  I  can 
recreate  you,  show  you  the  world  again  and  all  the 
beautiful  things  in  it.  Oh,  it  will  be  too  wonder- 
ful." 

"  Poor  Stephen,"  she  said,  patting  his  hand.  "  I 
shall  try  to  be  a  good  pupil." 

The  nurse  came  quietly  into  the  room.  Neither 
noticed  her.  They  were  looking  longingly  and  ques- 
tioningly  into  each  others'  eyes.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
disturb  you,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  the  doctor 


STEPHEN  i97 

is  going,  Mr.  Bond,  and  wants  to  speak  to  you.  Mrs. 
Bond  must  sleep  now,  too.  You  may  see  her  longer 
in  the  morning." 

"  Very  well,"  Stephen  answered.  "  Tell  him  I  am 
coming."  Then  to  Helen,  "  Rest  now,  sweetheart. 
To-morrow  will  be  the  first  of  long  and  beautiful  to- 
morrows." 

She  held  his  hand  tightly  and  kissed  him  when  he 
leaned  down  to  her.  "  I  am  very  happy,"  she  said 
shyly,  "  because  I  think  you  are  the  kind  of  man  I 
should  have  chosen  for  a  husband  if  I  could  have 
chosen.  I  must  be  just  what  I  was  long  ago  when 
I  did  choose — you." 

Stephen  rushed  from  the  room,  his  eyes  blinded 
with  tears  that  came  from  his  fierce  joy.  But  with 
the  joy  there  was  an  almost  fiercer  pain.  Until  now 
he  had  found  deception  so  easy,  but  this  was  very 
different,  this  matter  of  deceiving  Helen.  Almost 
he  wished  that  she  had  wakened  with  memory  intact. 
Then  he  could  have  argued  and  convinced  her  that 
he  was  right — for  her  happiness  and  in  fulfilment  of 
his  own  need.  Now  she  was  his  without  a  struggle. 
She  trusted  his  honour,  and  for  the  moment  he  felt 
himself  stripped  naked  of  honour.  But  she  was  his 
— her  future  was  his  with  all  its  possibilities.  He  held 
fast  to  that,  made  it  the  paramount  consideration  in 


i98  THE    GREEN   VASE 

his  mind,  strained  his  will  to  keep  his  thoughts  fixed 
there,  and  there  only.  Perhaps  later  he  would  tell 
her — then  in  full  mutual  understanding  they  could 
publicly  face  the  world,  its  common  scorn  and  its  rare 
comprehension — but  not  now.  Neither  had  the 
strength  to  bear  it  now.  "  It  is  best  as  it  is — best  as 
it  is,"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself,  but  when  he 
reached  the  room  where  the  doctor  was  waiting  for 
him  he  cried  involuntarily,  "  Don't  tell  me  anything 
more.  I  can't  bear  anything  more  now." 

The  doctor  led  him  to  a  chair.  "  I'm  sorry  if  I 
frightened  you  too  much  about  yourself.  Perhaps 
Dr.  Locke " 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself,"  Stephen  interrupted. 
"  I  don't  care  what  your  specialist  says." 

"Oh,  well,  then;  it  was  something  about  your 
wife  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

"  There  is  a  chance  that  she  may  regain  her  mem- 
ory?" 

"  None,  I  fear,  at  present.  It  is  something  pleas- 
ant, something  that  I  should  have  told  you  before, 
but  put  off  from  week  to  week  until  I  was  sure  it 
would  be  good  news,  not  bad." 

"  Must  you  tell  me  now?  "  Even  in  the  stress  of 
his  emotion  Stephen  was  conscious  that  news  of 
Helen,  as  it  seemed  good  to  others,  might  not  be 


STEPHEN  199 

equally  good  for  him.  Perhaps,  for  instance,  he 
might  suggest  some  shock  to  restore  her  memory  that 
it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  avoid  taking. 

"  It  is  not  imperative  to  tell  you  now,  but  I  must 
soon.  You  must  tell  her." 

Stephen  took  hold  of  the  arms  of  his  chair.  "  You 
might  as  well  tell  me  now.  I  don't  want  to  live  in 
dread  of  anything." 

"  That  is  wise,  since  my  news  must  please  you. 
Soon  after  you  came  here  I  believed  that  Mrs.  Bond 
was  going  to  have  a  child.  I  did  not  tell  you  then 
because  I  was  afraid  the  accident  might  have  injured 
the  child  and  that  we  should  not  be  able  to  save  it. 
The  escape  is  almost  miraculous,  but  is,  I  believe, 
definite.  Everything  seems  to  be  normal,  and  you 
should  be  a  happy  father  next  February  or 
March Mr.  Bond — what  is  it?  " 

Stephen  had  leaned  down,  his  head  between  his 
hands,  when  the  doctor  started  to  speak,  and  at  the 
end  toppled  forward,  slid  from  the  chair,  and  lay, 
face  downward,  on  the  floor. 

When  he  regained  consciousness  he  found  himself 
in  bed.  A  nurse  was  sitting  at  his  side,  and  across 
the  room  he  saw  the  doctor,  reading.  The  lamp 
was  deeply  shaded,  but  he  closed  his  eyes.  Even  the 
dim  light  irritated  him.  He  felt  utterly  exhausted, 


200  THE   GREEN   VASE 

knowing  only  where  he  was,  and  that  Helen  was 
near  him.  He  was  too  weak  to  think. 

The  nurse  took  hold  of  his  wrist,  but  he  made  no 
sign.  "  The  pulse  is  a  little  stronger,"  he  heard  her 
say.  "  It  will  take  some  days,  however.  He  lost 
a  lot  of  blood."  Blood?  Why  should  he  have  lost 
blood,  he  thought  vaguely. 

Then  the  doctor  answered:  "  It  is  quite  wonderful 
how  his  strength  has  kept  up  during  the  last  weeks. 
He  looked  bad  and  was  living  on  his  nerves.  Dr. 
Locke  will  be  here  soon,  thank  God.  He  needs  a 
lung  specialist,  and  quickly." 

"  Wasn't  it  strange,  his  having  that  hemorrhage 
so  suddenly?  "  So  that  was  it — the  loss  of  blood — a 
hemorrhage.  Well,  he  had  known  many  people  who 
had  them  and  recovered. 

"  It  was,"  the  doctor  answered.  "  I  should  have 
let  him  alone,  I  suppose,  but  I  wanted  to  cheer  him 
up.  It  must  be  rather  dreary  having  to  get  ac- 
quainted all  over  again  with  your  own  wife.  But  it 
seemed  to  have  the  opposite  effect.  He  toppled  right 
over  when  I  told  him  about  the  baby." 

"  Baby " — the  word  echoed  dully  in  Stephen's 
mind.  He  always  liked  children.  Whose  baby  were 
they  talking  about?  He  was  interested  in  no  par- 
ticular baby.  Then  the  whole  appalling  story  came 


STEPHEN  201 

crashing  back  into  his  mind.  He  did  not  think;  he 
simply  felt,  and  as  he  come  to  full  emotional  realisa- 
tion shudders  ran  along  his  body.  He  heard  the 
nurse  call  to  the  doctor,  knew  that  they  were  wrap- 
ping him  in  blankets  and  putting  hot  cloths  against 
his  feet  and  his  back.  It  was  like  treating  a  foot  to 
cure  a  toothache,  he  knew,  but  they  could  not  guess 
the  agony  of  his  mind.  The  picture  came  to  him, 
the  vision  of  the  afternoon,  of  the  radiant  future, 
of  the  endless  chain  of  days,  each  like  a  golden  bead, 
perfect  in  itself  and  made  more  beautiful  by  its  fel- 
lows, all  strung  on  the  invisible  thread  of  their  com- 
mon life.  Was  this  possible  now?  He  and  Helen 
alone — there  was  infinitude  of  happiness  in  the  dream. 
He  and  Helen,  and  Henry's  child — the  dream  was 
shattered.  He  had  prayed  that  the  past  might  not 
too  violently  obtrude  its  shadow,  and  praying,  he  had 
trained  to  do  battle  with  the  shadow.  But  as  against 
the  unbelievable  reality  his  training  was  in  vain.  One 
could  not  fight  with  a  child.  The  past  had  projected 
a  living  fragment  of  itself  into  the  future,  and  as  the 
future  grew  so  the  past  would  grow  with  it. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A  FEW  days  later  Stephen  sat  in  an  armchair  on  the 
piazza.  One  end  was  screened,  and  there  he  slept. 
The  day  was  warm,  with  a  softness  in  the  air  like 
that  of  a  day  in  spring.  The  harlequin  reds  and  yel- 
lows of  the  trees  seemed  crudely  out  of  place.  It  was 
as  though  the  year  had  made  a  mistake.  The  soft 
blue  sky,  flecked  with  wisps  of  white,  should  have 
looked  down  through  trees  all  feathered  with  soft 
pinks  and  greens  like  the  colours  in  a  Hokusai 
print.  To  be  in  keeping  with  the  autumn  leaves  the 
sky  should  have  been  of  that  harder,  colder  blue  that 
shone  with  an  almost  metallic  lustre  through  the  bold 
foliage  of  a  picture  by  Hiroshige. 

Stephen  thought  naturally  in  terms  of  Japanese 
prints.  Years  earlier,  on  a  trip  around  the  world, 
he  had  been  captivated  by  their  charm,  had  realised 
almost  instinctively  the  artist's  point  of  view,  and 
had  delighted  in  their  singleness  of  purpose,  their  con- 
sistent striving  for  perfection  as  they  understood  it. 
With  this  exception — for  he  studied  his  prints  with 
scientific  minuteness  as  well  as  with  appreciation — he 

had  always  been  a  dilletante  in  art  matters,     He 

202 


STEPHEN  203 

went  to  the  Art  Museum,  groaned,  like  all  Bostonians 
of  his  own  set,  over  the  uninspired  plaster  casts  and 
the  inadequate  paintings  but  unlike  most,  he  went 
further,  to  study  the  really  glorious  Chinese  and 
Japanese  collections.  Like  all  good  Bostonians,  too, 
he  went  to  the  Symphony  concerts,  understood  them, 
a  little,  by  dint  of  diligent  reading  of  the  programmes, 
and  thoroughly  enjoyed  them  in  his  own  unexpressive 
way.  But  for  his  prints,  over  which  he  spent  hours 
of  loving  study,  he  had  a  trained,  appreciative 
knowledge. 

Naturally,  therefore,  after  two  torturing  days  in 
his  bed,  when  he  had  been  at  last  allowed  to  sit  on 
the  piazza,  he  had  asked  that  the  few  prints  in  the 
house  be  put  on  a  table  beside  him.  The  conscious 
calm  of  them  soothed  him,  the  exquisite  harmony  of 
their  lines  and  colours,  unrelieved  by  shadows  or 
high  lights,  brought  at  least  momentary  harmony  into 
his  tangled  and  twisted  outlook.  Helen  had  recog- 
nised it  in  the  print  she  had  seen  in  his  house  in 
Boston.  They  would  love  them  together.  As  he  sat 
now,  thinking  of  Helen  and  looking  at  a  print  by 
Kiyonaga  that  lay  in  his  lap,  he  was  able  to  think 
more  sanely  because  of  its  unconscious  influence.  It 
was  an  example  of  the  highest  work  of  the  artist— 
the  Shakspere  of  wood  engravers,  Stephen  loved  to 


204  THE   GREEN   VASE 

call  him,  because  he  most  nearly  approximated  the 
real  and  the  ideal.  The  women  of  the  print  were  real 
women,  standing  out  from  the  discreetly  suggested 
landscape  background,  not  the  attenuated  fancies  of 
Kiyonaga's  latest  style.  In  their  almost  unearthly 
grace  of  motion,  in  the  flowing  lines  of  their  har- 
moniously coloured  draperies,  in  the  spiritual  calm  of 
their  expressions,  they  brought  reality  into  com- 
munion with  the  eternal  ideal.  They  were  two 
women,  a  mother  and  a  nurse-maid,  and  at  their  feet 
a  child. 

It  was  the  child  which  had  made  him  choose  this 
print  among  them  all  to  study.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  the  technique — in  Kiyonaga  this  is  unnecessary  ex- 
cept in  recognition  of  its  mastery.  He  was  rather 
thinking  of  the  relation  portrayed,  the  wonderful  re- 
lation between  a  mother  and  her  child,  that  transcends 
all  others  of  human  life  and  yet  conflicts  with  none. 
In  the  apparent  detachment  of  the  mother  in  the  pic- 
ture he  tried  to  see  Helen,  filling,  as  she  would,  the 
mother's  part,  yet  ready  for  all  the  world  had  to 
offer  beyond.  The  father?  He  wondered  whether 
the  women  were  thinking  of  him,  whether,  perhaps, 
in  giving  her  the  child,  he  had  not  fulfilled  his  mis- 
sion and  passed  onward  into  the  inscrutable  mystery 
of  death.  Then  some  other  would  take  up  his  re- 


STEPHEN  205 

sponsibilities  toward  the  child  and  the  child's  mother, 
would  be  a  new  father,  as  Stephen  felt  that  he  could 
be,  would  perhaps  more  completely  fill  the  woman's 
soul  than  the  first  could  have  done — the  first,  who 
had  lost  his  opportunity,  through  death.  This  was, 
after  all,  normal,  when  one  died,  that  another  should 
take  up  the  burden  of  his  joys  and  sorrows.  And  if 
the  woman  died,  as  Helen  had  died,  might  not  she 
gather  up  the  threads  of  life  anew,  had  she  not  the 
right  to  choose  for  herself  once  more,  as  she  would 
have,  had  her  husband  died?  He  forced  aside  the 
ever-recurrent  question,  that  his  inherited  love  of  fair 
sport  pressed  to  the  foreground.  "  You  say  she  has 
the  right  to  choose,  but  is  she  shown  that  right?" 
"  Later,"  he  always  answered,  "  she  is  not  able  now. 
Later,  when  she  has  learned  to  see,  I  will  give  it  to 
her." 

So,  during  the  long  days  and  nights  of  mental  and 
moral  torture  he  had  come  into  possession  of  a  kind 
of  compromise  peace  with  his  conscience.  The  only 
moral  question  that  troubled  him  was  that  of  his 
deceit  toward  Helen.  The  question  of  Henry's  rights 
had  ceased  to  have  any  meaning  for  him.  It  was  a 
twisted  reflection  of  the  beliefs  of  his  own  remote 
ancestors  who  had  torn  England  with  civil  strife  and 
beheaded  King  Charles  because  they  had  set  up  Right, 


206  THE   GREEN   VASE 

the  will  of  God,  as  in  eternal  but  always  victorious 
conflict  with  rights,  the  privileges  of  the  individual 
or  of  society.  Like  them,  he  declared  society  wrong 
in  its  sweeping  definition  of  the  rights  of  a  husband. 
In  a  particular  case,  like  his,  God's  will  must  be  de- 
cisive. Perhaps  he  would  not  have  phrased  it  so, 
but  the  fact  was  there.  Like  the  Puritans  in  so 
many  instances,  he  mistook  his  own  will  for  that  of 
God. 

He  put  the  print  reluctantly  on  the  table  beside 
him,  looking  once  more  at  the  calm,  mysterious  face 
of  the  mother.  Passionless,  the  mark  of  the  world- 
wide enigma  of  woman's  nature,  it  seemed  to  him 
the  keynote  of  the  harmony  of  life  as  well  as  the 
focal  point  of  its  dissension.  It  seemed  to  him  also 
capable  of  infinite  understanding,  forgiveness,  and 
love.  With  this  thought  he  went  to  Helen. 

"  Stephen,  dear,"  she  said,  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  be- 
side her  sofa,  "  I  have  been  thinking  much,  since  I 
could  think.  And  perhaps  there  may  be  something 
uncommonly  clear  in  the  thoughts  of  one  who  is  able 
only  to  hold  in  mind  the  present  and  the  future." 

"  In  any  case,  dear,  what  you  think  is  of  greatest 
importance  to  me.  What  has  it  all  been  about?  " 

"  Largely  about  you.  I  am  well  now,  and  as  soon 
as  my  silly  legs  will  hold  me  up  I  want  to  go  away, 


STEPHEN  207 

with  you — somewhere  where  I  can  care  for  you  as 
you  have  for  me  and  bring  back  your  health  as  you 
have  mine." 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  necessary — for  a  time,"  he 
said  gloomily.  "  But  I  had  made  such  wonderful 
plans  while  you  were  sick — such  long,  splendid  trips 
over  the  whole  round  world  to  show  you  the  places 
I  have  already  seen  and  to  see  with  you  the  places  I 
have  never  seen." 

"  It  would  be  wonderful — but  not  now.  We  must 
go  West,  to  Arizona  or  Colorado,  the  nurse  tells  me, 
where  you  will  get  well  again.  It  will  be  best  for 
me,  too,  she  says." 

"  But  the  loneliness  of  it  for  you,  dear." 
"  Why  for  me,  more  than  for  you?  " 
"  For  me   it  would  be  heaven — away  from  the 
world,  from  every  one  but  you.     It  would  be  glori- 
ous." 

"  And  yet  you  doubt  the  same  pleasure  for  me." 
She  smiled  at  him,  affectionately.  "  But  seriously, 
Stephen,  it  would  be  a  blessing.  I  am  afraid  of  peo- 
ple. I  should  be  in  fear  continually  of  meeting  those 
I  used  to  know — and  not  knowing  them.  It  would 
mean  explaining,  explaining — revealing  my  shallow 
soul  to  people  who  have  no  right  to  know.  I  want 
to  be  forgotten  as  I  have  forgotten.  I  want,  when 


208  THE    GREEN   VASE 

I  meet  people  again,  to  meet  them  as  a  woman,  not 
as  a  child." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dearest,"  he  said,  "  and  yet  there 
is  a  peace  in  your  reconquered  innocence  that  is  worth 
more  than  years  of  knowledge  and  of  tears.  If  I 
could  only  teach  you  the  beautiful  things  and  none 
of  the  ugly! " 

"  But  you  cannot,  Stephen.  It  is  just  as  though 
I  were  newly  born.  I  must  see  the  world  as  it  is,  or 
not  at  all." 

"  You  are  rigjit,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  know,  Helen, 
that  is  what  I  said  to  you  often  in  the  past,  that  time 
that  you  don't  remember.  Many  things  I  thank  God 
that  you  have  forgotten." 

"  No.  You  must  not  say  that.  It  will  make  me 
think  that  you  did  not  love  me — then.  Before  we 
come  back  from  the  West  you  must  tell  me  every- 
thing. I  trust  you,  dear— everything.  I  cannot  face 
the  world  of  men  and  women  remembering  only  the 
happy  parts  of  my  life.  I  must  know  the  sad  ones, 
the  troubled  ones.  You  must  make  again  the  scars 
that  they  have  made.  I  cannot  have  die  clean  soul 
of  a  child  with  the  scarred  body  of  a  woman." 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  where  a  long, 
white  scar  drew  its  sharp  curve  across  her  left 
temple. 


STEPHEN  209 

"  Will  not  the  purity  of  your  soul,"  he  said  gently, 
"  he  the  hest  inheritance  of  your  child?  " 

"  My  child  ?  "  It  was  only  a  startled  question,  but 
as  she  looked  at  him  her  eyes  grew  dark  and  large. 
As  Stephen  gazed  into  them  he  was  frightened  at  the 
things  he  did  not  understand,  startled  to  see  dawning 
there  the  mystery  of  motherhood.  Had  the  print  lied 
to  him?  Was  it,  after  all,  a  passion,  all  consuming? 
Was  the  child  to  dose  for  him  the  doors  of  Heaven? 
He  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  the  words 
unsaid,  yet  said  they  must  be. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  still  very  gently,  though  his  voice 
trembled.  "  Next  February,  the  doctor  says.  It  will 
be  a  little  Arizona  baby."  He  held  her  hand  tightly 
clasped  in  his  and  leaned  over  her,  laying  his  head 
on  the  pillow  beside  hers. 

Her  eyes  dosed.  Slowly  the  blood  drained  away 
from  her  face,  and  tears,  forcing  themselves  between 
her  eyelids,  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  But  for  that, 
and  the  convulsive  hold  on  his  hand,  he  would  have 
thought  she  had  fainted.  He  waited,  silent,  wiping 
away  the  tears  as  they  fell.  He  knew  that  she  must 
realise  it,  and  he  had  nothing  to  say.  Her  senses 
were  too  acute  for  him  to  risk  any  expression  he  did 
not  feel.  He  was  cold  and  his  heart  beat  furiously. 

At  last  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  pite- 


210  THE   GREEN   VASE 

ously.  He  could  not  long  answer  her  gaze,  because 
it  was  brimming  with  mute,  despairing  questions  that 
he  could  not  solve.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  looked 
away  because  he  could  not  answer  truth  with  truth. 
He  did  not  know,  what  it  takes  the  best  of  men 
years  of  married  life  to  learn,  that  to  the  deepest, 
most  soul-stirring  questions  a  woman  does  not  need 
from  the  man  she  loves  naked  truth,  but  infinite  com- 
passion. It  is  not  that  she  is  by  nature  less  truthful, 
but  that  the  texture  of  her  soul,  as  of  her  body,  is 
more  sensitive  than  his,  and  that  the  truth  which  in- 
spires him  may  crush  her.  So  he  did  not  know  that 
the  appeal  in  Helen's  eyes  was  not  for  explanation, 
but  for  sympathy.  He  knew  that  she  was  brave,  that 
she  would  always  do  the  right  thing,  the  strong,  un- 
selfish thing — much  more,  that  she  would  see  the 
right,  which  is  braver  than  to  do  it.  Probably,  al- 
though he  did  not  know  it,  his  silence  was  wise. 

In  a  broken  voice  she  spoke,  at  last,  and  her  first 
word  was  a  question,  "  Can  a  child  be  a  mother?  " 

He  answered  her  quietly,  his  words  full  of  emo- 
tion, however,  "  If  more  mothers  in  this  world  were 
children  at  heart,  the  world  would  be  a  sweeter  place 
to  live  in.  It  is  the  worldliness,  the  damnable  knowl- 
edge of  the  mothers,  their  forth-putting,  their  interest 
in  everything  on  earth  except  their  families,  that 


STEPHEN  211 

leaves  their  poor  children  to  grow  up  as  best  they  may 
— and  the  best  is  usually  the  worst.  No,  Helen. 
Thank  Heaven  that  your  child  will  be  free  from  the 
taint  of  its  mother's  worldliness." 

Her  eyes,  fixed  on  him  still,  were  as  full  of  ques- 
tions as  ever.  Not  yet  could  he  fearlessly  return  her 
gaze.  "  But,  Stephen,"  she  went  on,  "  you  are  speak- 
ing generalities,  and  I  believe  you,  though  I  cannot 
understand.  There  may  be  such  mothers,  but  I  should 
not  have  been  one.  All  the  experience  I  had  gath- 
ered in  the  past  would  have  been  his,  the  child's,  for 
his  use,  as  my  life  would  have  been  his — and  his 
father's.  And,  Stephen — I  do  not  know  his  father." 

He  drew  away  from  her  sharply.  "  Now  it  is 
you,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "  you,  who  are  speaking  in 
a  language  I  cannot  understand." 

"  Yet  you  must,  dear,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  must  make 
you  understand.  I  have  been  dead  and  now  I  am 
alive  again,  but  still  my  past  is  dead.  You  are  here — 
yes,  you  and  the  house  and  this  body  of  mine.  I 
accept  them  because  I  must — and  gratefully,  dear 
Stephen — do  not  misunderstand  again.  I  told  you 
that  you  were  a  proof  to  me  that  I  must  have  been 
much  as  I  am.  But  now,  in  addition  to  all  this,  I 
must  train  myself  to  accept  a  child,  a  little  baby,  the 
incarnation  of  the  past,  of  the  joy  of  the  past,  sud- 


212  THE   GREEN   VASE 

denly  becoming  real — like  you  and  all  the  rest — but 
more  than  you,  demanding  explanations.  I  can't  tell 
you  coherently,  dear,  because  it  is  all  so  new.  The 
words  and  the  thoughts  come  together  and  both  are 
confused.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  a  baby  has  no 
meaning  unless  he  emerges,  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
light, from  the  glory  of  his  father's  and  his  mother's 
love.  And  that,  dear  Stephen — all  that  is  blank  to 
me." 

He  bowed  his  head.  "  You  must  give  me  time, 
dear,"  she  continued  brokenly;  "  I  shall  come,  at  last, 
to  accept  this,  as  I  have  the  other  things — but  it  is 
so  different.  You  have  told  me  the  facts  of  the  last 
years,  some  of  them.  You  must  tell  me  all  as  time 
goes  on.  But  you  cannot  tell  me  the  emotions.  They 
must  be  felt,  and  the  memory  of  them  is  the  renewal 
of  the  feeling,  not  of  the  fact.  Only  as  new  emotions 
come  I  may  be  able  through  imagination  to  relive 
the  old  ones.  Then,  perhaps,  the  baby  will  grow 
to  have  a  meaning.  Can  you  understand — a  lit- 
tle  " 

He  saw  that  her  terror  for  herself  had  changed 
to  pity  for  him,  and  realised  bitterly  what  her  words 
meant,  as  applied  to  him.  They  were  the  unconscious 
ratification  of  the  truth  he  had  fought  against,  that 
the  child,  in  whom  he  had  no  part,  must  always  stand 


STEPHEN  213 

between  them.     Perhaps,  as  the  months  and  years 
went  by,  he  and  Helen  might  grow  into  the  complete 
accord  that  he  longed  for;  but,  if  this  were  so,  the 
child  must  stand  aside,  unloved  and  uncared  for, 
except  as  duty  demanded.    Either  thought  was  agony. 
He  could  not  give  up  the  dream  of  Helen  that  had 
sustained  him  through  the  dark  months  of  her  un- 
consciousness, the  dream  of  tKeir  unclouded  life  to- 
gether where  she  should  have  every  opportunity  to 
grow  into  the  full  inheritance  of  "  the  other  woman  " 
whom  he  knew  to  be  her  true  self,  and  where  he 
should  learn  for  the  first  time  what  might  be  the 
meaning  of  happiness,  which  is  never  lonely  satisfac- 
tion.    And  at  the  same  time  he  could  not  think  of 
the  child  as  neglected  or  unloved.    What  had  at  first 
seemed  a   cruel   assertion  of  unwarranted  personal 
claims  on  Henry  Murphy's  part,  claims  made  vital  in 
the  person  of  the  child,  had  gradually  come  to  mean 
an  opportunity.     Those  claims,  never  quite  dead  in 
the  background  of  his  conscience,  could  be  fully,  gen- 
erously satisfied  by  giving  to  Henry's  child  the  best 
there  was  to  give,  materially,  and  in  loving  care. 
And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  reasoning  had  led 
him  into  a  lane  that  had  no  outlet.    Could  he  possibly 
reconcile  the  child's  right  to  happiness  with  his?    His 
old  nature  reasserted  itself.    He  must  risk  his  own 


2i4  THE    GREEN   VASE 

happiness  to  fulfil  his  obligations  to  the  letter,  since 
they  were  obligations  that  he  recognised. 

He  could  look  at  Helen,  now,  with  no  thought  of 
faithlessness.  There  had  been  a  long  silence,  dis- 
turbed only  by  his  own  hoarse  breathing.  "  Have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered — "  that  is,  I  had  nothing.  But 
I  have  been  thinking.  You  will  love  your  baby." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  love  him.  He  will  be  so  helpless 
and  alone." 

"  And  the  love  you  have  for  him — perhaps  that, 
more  than  anything,  will  carry  you  back  into  the 
years  that  are  dark  now."  He  said  it  firmly,  but  his 
voice  was  charged  with  the  pain  of  a  great  renuncia- 
tion. "  You  must  try  to  love  him,  my  dearest.  You 
must  make  him  first  of  all.  It  will  be  best  for  you 
and  for  him." 

He  had  spoken  with  eyes  closed,  and  started  as 
she  put  her  hand  over  his.  "And  for  you?"  she 
asked. 

"  And  for  me,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head  as 
though  to  toss  away  the  fumes  of  thought.  "  What 
is  for  your  good  must  be  for  mine.  Have  you 
talked  with  the  doctor  about  when  you  can  leave 
here?" 

She  was  quick  to  follow  his  lead.    "  In  a  month, 


STEPHEN  215 

at  the  latest,  he  says.  For  both  of  us,  the  sooner  we 
go  the  better.  Have  you  decided  where  it  is  to  be?  " 

"  To  Arizona.  I  fell  in  love  with  the  desert  years 
ago,  and  you  will,  when  you  see  it.  There  is  nothing 
dreary — or  if  there  is  it  is  a  kind  of  dreariness  so 
objective  that  it  increases  your  joy  in  life.  We  shall 
go  to  Tucson.  There  perhaps  we  can  find  a  house. 
And  now  I  must  write  my  friends,  telling  of  our 
departure.  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Boston  once  more — 
on  business — and  then,  dear,  away  with  you  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth." 

But  to  him  those  words  that  once  would  have  meant 
so  much  were  tinged  with  bitterness. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE  five  years  that  had  made  Helen  again  a  strong 
woman  had  not  gone  so  well  with  Stephen.  At  first 
the  keen,  dry  air  of  Arizona  had  built  him  up,  al- 
most driven  away  the  cough ;  but  a  month  spent  dur- 
ing the  winter  in  New  Orleans  had  brought  the 
trouble  back,  showing  him  that  there  was  safety  only 
at  home — they  had  easily  come  to  call  Tucson  home. 
But  even  Tucson  had  this  time  proved  itself  inade- 
quate. Stephen  was  courageous,  hoping  that  Helen 
would  not  see;  but  both  knew  in  their  hearts  that  he 
was  going  down  hill,  very  gradually  and  peacefully, 
to  be  sure,  but  still  losing  ground  day  by  day. 

The  doctor  was  just  leaving  one  afternoon  in  late 
January.  Stephen  lay  in  a  hammock  on  the  veranda. 
Helen  was  riding,  and  the  boy  was  off,  somewhere, 
with  his  nurse.  "Should  you  give  me  a  year?" 
Stephen  asked  abruptly. 

"  My  dear  man,  many  years,"  the  doctor  an- 
swered, buttoning  his  heavy  linen  coat  across  his  fat 
stomach.  He  was  a  short  man,  very  round,  with  a 
permanent  smile  and  a  bald  head  that  seemed  to 

catch  a  reflection  wherever  he  was,    Almost  hi§  only 

216 


STEPHEN  217 

duty  was  to  make  happy  the  last  stages  of  the  hun- 
dreds who  flocked  to  Arizona  too  late,  with  lungs  too 
far  gone  to  be  cured.  Those  who  came  in  time 
laughed  at  him — the  others  with  him.  "  You've  got 
to  take  things  easy,  but  if  you  do  it  life  will  take  you 
easy." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  said,  "  or  death." 

"Fiddlesticks!  Death  is  a  personage  not  worth 
talking  about.  We  all  have  to  meet  him  sooner  or 
later,  and  the  less  we  talk  about  him  beforehand  the 
better." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Stephen  interrupted;  "I  am  not 
seeking  his  acquaintance,  but  I  want  to  be  fore- 
warned. I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid,  you  know,  but 
I  want  to  be  ready.  I  have  my  will  to  make,  for 
example." 

"  Make  it,  make  it,  make  it,"  the  doctor  cried,  sit- 
ting down  on  the  top  step.  "  The  man  who  doesn't 
make  his  will  when  he's  well  is  a  fool.  Some  folks 
think  it's  a  gloomy  business — will  making.  It  isn't. 
It's  just  planning  safe  future  investments  on  a  de- 
pendable market.  I  made  mine  twenty-two  years  ago, 
when  I  married  Bessie.  I  knew  she  was  a  safe  invest- 
ment, and  I  was  right.  If  you  don't  know  the  same 
of  your  wonderful  little  wife  your  business  sense  is 
lacking — that's  all  I've  got  to  say,  except  that  I'd 


218  THE   GREEN  VASE 

take  a  few  shares  at  par  any  pleasant  day.  You  have 
a  really  fine  view  up  here,"  he  added,  looking  across 
the  plains,  "  almost  as  good  as  mine,  but  not  quite." 

"  I  am  not  mistrusting  my  investment.  To  prove 
it,  send  up  a  lawyer  from  the  town  to-morrow  and 
I'll  make  my  will." 

"To-morrow;  good  Lord,  there's  no  such  hurry 
as  that — except,  as  my  good  grandmother  used  to 
say  to  us  boys,  *  It's  always  wise  to  take  time  by  the 
fetlock.'  " 

Stephen  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "  I  marvel," 
he  said,  "  that  such  an  inconsequential  person  as  you, 
Dr.  Seward,  knows  whether  it  is  better  to  make  a  sick 
man  well  or  a  well  man  sick." 

"  Both  methods  would  bring  in  business.  I  have 
to  cure  them  all,  and  if  I  could  make  a  large  enough 
part  of  the  district  sick  it  would  mean  a  fortune." 

"  So  it  would.  No  one  who  knows  you  would  have 
any  other  doctor.  But  that  does  not  alter  my  state- 
ment that  you  are  inconsequential.  You  shout  *  make 
it,  make  it '  when  I  suggest  a  will,  and  then  you  tell 
me  there  is  no  hurry.  Will  you  answer  my  question 
as  to  how  long  I  have?  I  really  want  to  know — 
seriously." 

"  And  I  really  don't  know — seriously.  If  you  take 
things  calmly,  avoid  excitement  and  all  that,  you  may, 


STEPHEN  219 

as  I  said,  live  years.  On  the  other  hand,  you  may 
catch  some  other  trouble  and  go  off  in  a  week.  It's 
a  chance  we  all  run,  but  it's  a  worse  risk  for  you, 
because  you  haven't  any  lungs  to  speak  of  and  so 
you  can't  get  in  the  fresh  air  that  drives  things  out. 
Keep  cheerful  and  keep  calm — the  two  go  together — 
and  you're  good  for  a  long  time  to  come." 

"  So  you  can't  tell  me.  I  believe  you.  And  as 
to  your  prescription,  that  is  easy.  Every  morning  I 
am  sure  that  I  am  better.  I  believe  it  and  Helen  tells 
me  so.  It  is  only  when  I  stop  to  think  about  it,  as 
now,  that  I  know  every  day  I  am  just  a  bit,  a  tiny  bit, 
weaker.  I  used  to  ride  with  her  every  day — and 
then  one  day  last  week  I  didn't  feel  up  to  the  mark 
and  stayed  at  home.  But  I  have  not  been  since. 
This  hammock  is  wonderfully  comfortable.  Will  you 
send  the  lawyer  to-morrow,  Dr.  Seward?  " 

"  Sure  will  I — but  on  one  condition,  and  that  is, 
that  you  see  him  merely  as  a  fool  lawyer,  not  as  a 
preliminary  undertaker." 

"  Of  course.  I  am  not  going  to  create  bogies  for 
myself  just  because  I  neglected  to  do  what  I  ought  to 
have  done  long  ago." 

"  Right-o.  With  that  spirit  you'll  live  a  good 
decade  longer  than  I  do."  He  got  up  and  pulled  his 
coat  straight.  "And,  by  the  way,  I  hear  you're 


220  THE   GREEN   VASE 

seeing  a  good  bit  of  Father  Ignatius  over  at  the 
Mission.  A  good  man,  that,  I  have  no  doubt,  but 
more  interested  in  souls  than  bodies.  Now,  what  you 
need  to  think  about  is  your  body.  Of  course  I  don't 
want  to  interfere,  but  I  believe  that  if  a  man  keeps 
his  body  reasonably  clean  his  soul  will  make  a  pretty 
good  shift  for  itself.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
two  are  pretty  closely  joined,  down  here  anyway,  and 
it's  bad  policy  discussing  the  time  when  they  won't 
be — that  is,  I  mean,  dwelling  on  the  separation  too 
much.  It  really  is  a  fine  view  from  here.  As  I  said 
before,  almost  as  good  as  mine." 

Stephen  smiled  indulgently.  "  Just  now,"  he  said, 
"  Father  Ignatius  and  I  are  not  discussing  the  soul 
at  all.  This  morning,  in  fact,  we  talked  almost  en- 
tirely about  the  Arizona  orange  crop.  He  believes 
one  can  raise  oranges  here  that  taste  as  well  as  the 
Florida  oranges  and  that  look  as  well  as  the  Cali- 
fornias." 

"  He  is  perfectly  right,"  Dr.  Seward  interrupted 
joyfully.  "-That's  what  I've  always  said.  I  didn't 
know  he  wasvsuch  a  sensible  man.  Indeed,  between 
ourselves,  I  invested  two  thousand  in  the  Phenix  Im- 
proved Orange  Company  only  last  month.  I  wonder 
whether  the  friars  have  put  any  of  their  vast  wealth 
into  the  company." 


STEPHEN  221 

"  I  doubt  it,"  Stephen  answered,  "  because  I  am 
afraid  that  vast  wealth  of  theirs  is  a  myth.  They 
spend  all  they  have,  and  more,  in  their  work  among 
the  Indians.  In  fact,  that  is  what  Father  Ignatius 
usually  comes  to  talk  about — their  finances,  and,  be- 
cause I  ask  him,  their  religion." 

"  I  guess  he  doesn't  need  any  urging  about  the 
last,"  the  doctor  said.  "  I  never  saw  a  monk  yet  that 
didn't  try  to  proselyte." 

"  Oh !  As  to  that — it's  hardly  a  campaign,  you 
know.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  be  a  Catholic  if  I 
think  the  Catholics  are  right.  Father  Ignatius  knows 
that.  And  when  I  ask  him  questions  he  really  has  to 
answer.  The  trouble  is  that  I  know,  theoretically,  as 
much  as  he.  But  the  things  I  don't  know  he  cannot 
explain — faith,  for  example — I  suppose  he  was  born 
with  it.  There  is  a  lot  that  is  fine  in  his  religion. 
Historically  there  seems  to  be  no  other,  and  it  is  the 
only  one  that  rises  above  denominational  lines  be- 
cause it  claims  to  be  final." 

The  doctor  bridled.  "  I  don't  see  that  that  sig- 
nifies. If  you  claimed  to  be  a  father  that  wouldn't 
make  you  one  if  you  weren't.  And  as  to  being  unde- 
nominational— how  about  the  Episcopal  Church?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  said  seriously.  "  You  have  me 
there.  The  Episcopal  Church  is  not  denominational 


222 

because  it  is  fashionable.  My  wife  tells  me  that  in 
the  town  half  the  congregation  are  Jews.  Their 
presence  seems  to  make  both  assertions  definite.  They 
wouldn't  be  there  if  it  were  denominational  nor  if  it 
were  not  fashionable." 

"  We're  getting  them  out,"  the  doctor  said  irrita- 
bly. ;'  They  want  to  sing  in  the  choir  to  show  their 
clothes  and  we've  made  a  rule  that  only  those  can 
sing  in  the  choir  who  are  communicants.  Even  you 
can  see,  I  suppose,  that  if  they're  communicants  they 
can't  possibly  be  Jews.  Why  don't  you  come  down 
with  Mrs.  Bond  some  Sunday  and  try  it.  It's  a  much 
safer  doctrine  than  the  Roman." 

"  Better  for  me,  I  suppose.    Less  talk  of  the  soul." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  but  at  least  they  don't 
bury  a  man  before  he  is  dead.  If  you  want  religion, 
give  it  a  try — and  next  time  don't  keep  me  here  talk- 
ing like  this.  My  other  patients  may  die  for  lack 
of  a  chance  to  tell  me  funny  stories.  Good-bye.  Send 
for  me  if  you  feel  down." 

"  Surely — and  don't  forget  the  lawyer — and  don't 
kill  yourself  with  reckless  driving." 

Dr.  Seward  grinned  as  he  climbed  into  his  buggy. 
His  horse,  known  the  country  round  as  Old  Faithful, 
had  been  standing  motionless  for  an  hour,  apparently 
gazing  mournfully  across  the  brown  plains.  People 


STEPHEN  223 

said  the  doctor  needed  Old  Faithful  to  give  him  a 
serious  point  of  view.  He  cracked  his  whip  lustily, 
more  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  knew  how  than  as 
any  suggestion  to  the  horse,  and  started  slowly  be- 
tween the  lines  of  date  palms  to  the  gate. 

Stephen  got  up  reluctantly  from  his  hammock  and 
walked  across  the  veranda.  From  the  other  end  he 
could  look  out  on  the  flower  garden,  brilliant  even 
in  January  with  hibiscus,  and  gladioli,  and  poppies. 
There,  as  he  hoped,  was  the  child,  sitting  on  the  con- 
crete edge  of  the  little  fountain  and  poking  at  the 
goldfish  with  a  long,  pliable  reed.  "  Harry,"  he 
called.  "  Come  and  take  care  of  me  while  Miss  Gor- 
don goes  for  your  supper." 

"  I  want  to  play  with  the  fishes,"  the  boy  called 
back.  "  But  I'm  coming.  Will  you  tell  me  a  story?  " 

"  Yes,  or  talk  with  you."  The  child  laid  his  reed 
carefully  on  the  concrete.  "  Don't  lose  it,"  Stephen 
heard  him  say,  "  I  want  it  on  to-morrow.  We  are 
going  to  feed  the  fishes  then — I  and  mother.  I  like 
to  feed  the  fishes  with  mother."  Then  he  trudged 
around  the  flower  beds  until  he  came  to  the  gladioli. 
"  Can  I  pick  a  red  one  for  my  mother?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  you  may — not  can,  you 
know.  Carefully  now — not  to  break  them." 

The  little  boy  very  gravely  and  conscientiously 


224  THE   GREEN   VASE 

picked  out  a  perfect  flower,  and  holding  the  stem  with 
one  chubby  hand,  pulled  it  off.  "  It  is  the  best  of 
all,"  he  said,  "  for  my  best  mother.  When  is  she 
coming  home?  " 

"  Very  soon,  I  hope.  She  is  riding."  Stephen 
came  down  the  steps  and  took  the  child's  hand. 

"  I  like  her  to  ride  where  I  can  see  her.  She  is 
such  a  pretty  mother."  They  sat  down  in  the  ham- 
mock together. 

'  You  must  always  love  your  mother  very  dearly, 
my  boy.  If  I  ever  have  to  go  away  you  must  take 
care  of  her." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  the  child  answered  earnestly.  "  She 
says  I'm  a  brave  boy,  and  I  love  her  more  than  you — 
but  I  love  you  some,  too,  and  my  nurse." 

"  That's  right.  You  must  always  love  your 
mother  best." 

"  Yes.  Because  she  loves  me  best — more  than  she 
does  you  or  my  nurse." 

Stephen  winced,  but  drew  the  boy  more  closely  to 
him.  For  a  half  minute  neither  said  anything,  but 
Harry  was  never  long  silent.  Living  almost  entirely 
with  older  people,  he  expressed  himself  more  clearly 
than  did  the  average  child  of  his  age. 

"Why  is  the  blue  sky  yellow?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 


STEPHEN  225 

"  Because  the  sun  is  setting.  That  means  that 
your  mother  will  be  back  soon." 

"  Does  the  sun  like  a  yellow  sky  when  it  sets?  It 
sleeps  all  night  in  those  hills,  doesn't  it,  and  then 
in  the  morning  men  and  oxen  carry  it  way  round  the 
other  side?  " 

"  No,  dear  boy.  When  it  is  all  dark  here  the  sun 
is  still  shining  somewhere  else." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  get  very  tired.  I  do, 
and  I  have  to  sleep.  If  the  sun  didn't  go  into  the 
hills,  would  I  have  to  sleep  in  the  day?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  would.  Sleep  makes  you 
strong." 

"  Is  that  why  you  sleep  in  the  swing  all  day — to 
get  strong?  Do  you  sit  up  all  night?  Oh !  "  he  cried 
delightedly,  sliding  from  the  hammock.  "  Here's 
mother.  You  may  tell  me  a  story  on  to-morrow  in- 
stead. Hi!  Mother!" 

He  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  jumping  up  and 
down  like  a  bouncing  ball. 

Helen  leaped  from  her  horse  without  waiting  for 
the  groom,  and  darted  up  the  steps.  At  the  top  she 
sat  down  and  threw  her  arms  around  the  little  red- 
coated  figure.  "  Mother's  darling,"  she  cried  joy- 
ously. "  Has  he  been  a  good  boy  and  taken  good 
care  of  his  father?  " 


226  THE   GREEN  VASE 

:<  Yes,"  he  said,  wriggling  from  her  arms — "  very 
good  boy.  We  talked  about  you — father  and  me." 

"  Did  you,  you  nice  people.  Isn't  it  a  wonderful 
afternoon,  Stephen?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  for 
the  first  time. 

"  Like  all  afternoons,  brighter  when  you  get 
back." 

She  smiled  at  him  and  caught  the  child  in  her  arms 
again.  "  Tell  mother  what  you  and  father  have  been 
saying  about  me." 

"  I  told  him  you  love  me  best." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  say  that,  my  darling.  I 
love  you  both,  but  differently,  you  know." 

"  But  I  love  you  more,"  he  persisted. 

"  No,  dear,  you  mustn't  say  that,  either.  You  love 
us  both  just  the  same." 

"  Father  told  me  to  love  you  most,  and  I  do."  He 
said  it  in  a  tone  of  finality,  as  though  the  subject 
were  closed. 

"  That  seems  to  be  settled,  Helen,"  Stephen  broke 
in.  "  We  must  not  worry  the  child  by  making  him 
decide  in  a  conflict  of  parental  authority." 

"  All  right,  dear.  But  I  wish  you  would  not  en- 
courage him  in  such  ideas." 

"  I  want  a  pony,"  the  boy  said  suddenly,  "  to  ride 
with  you." 


STEPHEN  227 

"  Next  year,  Harry,  when  you're  a  big  boy.  Then 
you  and  father  and  I  can  all  ride  together." 

Stephen,  in  his  hammock,  sighed  as  he  looked  and 
listened.  He  could  think  of  nothing  happier  than 
long  rides  across  the  desert  with  Helen  and  this  child, 
who  had  grown  into  his  heart  even  while  he  knew 
that  he  must  divide  her  love — more  than  divide  it, 
with  the  boy.  He  felt  it  to  be  right,  this  victory  of 
mother  love.  He  did  not  struggle  against  it.  Rather 
he  felt  it  to  be  reparation,  in  some  sort,  for  all  that 
his  long  sickness  had  denied  her.  So  he  sat,  half 
listening  while  she  told  Harry  how  she  had  killed 
a  rattlesnake  in  the  desert  with  her  whip ;  half  sadly 
dreaming,  as  he  so  often  did,  of  their  life.  His  con- 
science, lately,  was  troubling  him  again.  In  the  Bos- 
ton papers,  and  once  or  twice  in  letters,  he  had  read 
of  Henry  Murphy's  success,  of  his  growing  impor- 
tance in  Boston  political  and  financial  fields,  and  very 
recently  of  his  being  at  dinners  with  people  who  had 
been  lifelong  friends  of  the  Bonds.  He  was  build- 
ing his  granite  tower,  and  the  people  who  had 
never  had  to  build  were  holding  out  their  hands  to 
him. 

So  far  as  Henry  was  concerned  Stephen  felt  no 
regrets.  It  was  only  for  Helen's  sake  that  he  was 
unhappy.  When  she  came  to  life  in  her  new  world 


228  THE   GREEN   VASE 

he  had  appropriated  the  rights  of  the  other  man  who 
had  proved  himself  unworthy  because  unable  to  give 
her  the  privileges  and  the  opportunities  that  were 
hers  by  right.  And  now  this  other  man,  Henry  Mur- 
phy, the  father  of  the  child,  had  grown  into  the  power 
that  could  fulfil  all  her  ambitions,  while  he,  Stephen 
Bond,  had  faded  from  the  world's  ken,  was  good 
only  to  sit  in  a  hammock  and  watch  her  play  with 
her  child  on  the  edge  of  the  limitless  desert.  He  had 
wanted  to  save  her  from  the  sordid  things — but  was 
anything  more  sordid  than  disease.  He  had  wanted 
to  show  her  the  fascination  of  the  world,  to  give 
her,  in  Europe,  a  great  social  position  that  stupid 
prejudice  would  have  denied  her  in  Boston.  He  had 
kept  her  in  Tucson,  isolated  from  her  equals,  the 
social  queen  of  the  Mrs.  Jenningses  of  Arizona,  who 
were  hardly  better  than  their  progenitors  in  South 
Boston.  That  she  was  happy,  in  a  mild,  unemotional 
way,  he  knew.  It  was  all  that  kept  up  his  courage. 
She  was  happy  because  she  knew  nothing  better — like 
a  child  with  a  battered  rag  doll — and  because  she 
was  doing  what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty.  He  had 
long  since  come  to  the  bitter  realisation  of  the  fact 
that  for  him  she  had  little  more  real  affection,  except 
in  a  motherly,  pitying  way,  than  she  had  had  years 
ago  in  Boston.  It  had  been  for  him  a  lesson  learned 


STEPHEN  229 

slowly,  bit  by  bit,  one  suggestion  after  another,  each 
almost  meaningless,  but  falling  into  its  prescribed 
place  in  the  final  picture.  The  boy,  not  he,  was  the 
light  in  these  dark  places  that  kept  her  face  fixed 
toward  the  sky. 

But  as  he  watched  them,  it  was  their  future  that 
loomed  menacing  before  him — their  life  after  he  was 
dead.  Somehow  that  had  not  occurred  to  him  at 
first.  He  had  not  even  thought  of  death  then,  and 
not  until  the  last  month  or  two  had  it  come  over 
him  what  might  happen  to  Helen.  Sorrow — not  at 
his  death,  which  must  be  a  release,  sad,  but  without 
the  poignancy  of  tragedy — sorrow  at  the  knowledge 
that  must  follow.  There  was  the  true  tragedy — the 
revelation  of  himself  when  he  could  not  explain — the 
revelation  of  herself  to  her  whose  past  had  been 
mystery  and  whose  future  would  be  the  cruel  lifting 
of  the  veil.  That  was  why  he  had  sent  for  Father 
Ignatius  as  for  one  whose  mission  had  been  for  cen- 
turies to  give  consolation.  There  had  been  nothing 
of  reasoning  in  this.  It  had  been  only  a  vague  crav- 
ing for  props  to  replace  the  material  supports  that 
were  gradually  crumbling  away.  As  Dr.  Seward  had 
suggested,  there  was  much  discussion  of  the  soul  and 
of  death.  There  was  also  much  self-revelation,  not 
of  deed,  but  of  motive,  and  the  very  speaking  out 


23o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

was  comfort.  The  healing  power  of  the  priest  was 
becoming  greater  than  that  of  the  doctor. 

Stephen  came  suddenly  to  full  realisation  of  the 
moment,  when  Helen  and  the  boy  stood  up.  They 
were  both  laughing,  her  sweet,  mellow  voice  mingling 
musically  with  the  flute-like  treble  of  the  boy's.  She 
leaned  down,  and  taking  the  curly  head  between  her 
hands,  asked,  "  Tell  me,  you  funny  little  boy,  where 
you  got  that  happy  face." 

"  I  know,"  he  cried.  "  When  I  came  to  you  from 
Heaven  I  went  through  a  cloud — like  that  one,  over 
there — and  the  cloud  smiled  at  me." 

"  Isn't  that  cunning,  Stephen?  "  she  said.  "  Who 
told  you  that,  my  boy?  " 

"  Nobody  told  me.    I  dreamed  it,  and  it  is  true." 

u  Then  you  must  go,  now,  and  dream  more  beau- 
tiful dreams.  Here  is  Miss  Gordon  with  your  sup- 
per." The  child  clasped  his  chubby  arms  around 
her  neck  and  hugged  her.  Then  he  kissed  Stephen's 
cheek  and  trotted  into  the  house. 

Helen  sat  down  in  the  hammock  beside  Stephen. 
"  It  was  really  wonderful  out  in  the  desert,"  she 
said,  "  almost  the  most  perfect  of  all  our  perfect  days. 
I  rode  for  miles — all  alone.  I  missed  you,  dear. 
Didn't  the  doctor  advise  you  to  begin  riding  again 
soon?  " 


STEPHEN  231 

"  No.  We  really  said  nothing  about  it.  He 
seemed  to  take  for  granted  that  my  riding  days  were 
over."  Helen  put  her  hand  quickly  in  his.  "  But 
there  is  always  joy  in  living — while  you  are  with  me, 
my  dearest.  Without- you — well,  the  flame  burns  low 
and  you  are  the  air  that  gives  it  being." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Stephen.  You  are 
better  than  you  were  a  week  ago.  And  then  about 
my  leaving  you — it  hurts  when  you  suggest  such 
things.  What  would  life  mean  for  me  without  you 
— and  Harry?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine — without  Harry.  Oh,  no,  dear, 
I  am  not  jealous.  The  little  fellow — with  all  his 
charm  and  life  and  good  spirits — ought  to  be  the  one 
to  keep  the  world  bright  for  you.  I  can't  do  that, 
much  as  I  should  like  to.  It  is  quite  wonderful,  the 
satisfaction  you  must  have,  and  that,  please  God, 
you  will  always  have,  in  knowing  that  just  because 
of  you  the  days  of  my  sickness  were  the  best  of  all 
my  life.  And  one  other  thing,  Helen.  If  the  time 
comes  that  you  think  of  me  as  bad,  if  your  thoughts 
are  bitter  against  me — try,  dear,  to  be  charitable. 
Try  to  learn  that  a  great  love  is  blind,  that  even  as 
it  grows  in  strength  it  grows  in  selfishness,  in  utter 
disregard  of  all  other  rights  but  its  own.  Even  the 
loved  one  is  merged  in  its  violence — her  best  being 


232  THE   GREEN   VASE 

no  longer  best  unless  it  contributes  to  the  satisfaction 
of  love's  demands.  Oh,  my  darling — you  see  me 
now,  weak  and  groping  and  trembling.  Do  not  re- 
member me  so.  Remember  me  as  mad  with  love — 
mad,  mad,  mad — and  then  perhaps  you  will  for- 
give." 

She  had  drawn  away  as  he  talked  and  sat  staring 
at  him,  white,  frightened.  She  hardly  noticed  that 
he  lay  back  in  the  hammock,  his  handkerchief  to  his 
mouth,  his  eyes  closed.  Suddenly  she  spoke.  "  The 
horror — the  terror — of  that  awful  void  in  my  life. 
I  cannot  understand — and  then  there  come  flashes  of 
lightning — like  what  you  said  now — and  the  clouds 
roll  in  the  void — and  I  almost  see.  Oh,  Stephen, 
Stephen,  if  you  would  only  tell  me — give  me  a  right 
to  love  you  as  you  love  me,  through  knowledge  of 
your  suffering,  and  mine.  I  hold  out  my  arms  to  a 
shadow  and  it  eludes  me.  There  must  be  a  something 
to  make  the  shadow,  and  my  heart  cries  out  for  it. 
But  out  of  the  shadow  you  come — and  you  are  not 
the  substance  of  the  shadow.  And  yet  perhaps  you 
are,  if  you  would  only  tell.  Have  I  not  the  right 
to  know?  " 

"  You  have,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  because  my 
love  has  risked  your  immortal  soul.  Some  day  I  will 
tell  you." 


STEPHEN  233 

"Why  not  now?" 

"  Because  to-day  I  am  not  ripe  for  death — and 
when  you  leave  me,  because  I  love  you  more  than 
man  has  a  right  to  love,  I  shall  die.  I  am  not  ready. 
There  is  much  to  do — for  you,  and  for  the  child. 
Helen — can  you  not  find  happiness  here  a  little 
longer?  Is  there  not  still  joy  in  the  desert?  " 

"  There  is  joy — and  terror.  Have  I  ever  told 
you?  When  the  sun  is  shining  at  midday  and  the 
cacti  throw  their  sharp,  black  blotches  on  the  yellow 
sand,  I  do  not  go  out.  I  do  not  dare.  I  feel  the 
terror  of  one  possessed — and  in  the  dream  you  are  the 
pursuer — and  the  shadow  that  I  cry  to  for  help  draws 
away;  and  once  Harry  came  and  stood  between  the 
cacti.  I  ran  toward  him,  and  he,  thinking  I  was 
playing,  fled.  And  I  was  blind  with  terror,  because 
he  seemed  to  be  the  shadow  and  I  knew  him  for  my 
child.  That  to  me,  Stephen,  is  the  terror  of  the 
desert.  When  the  sun  is  high  I  sit  in  the  house — and 
read." 

"  Strange,"  he  muttered,  "  strange.  Father  Ig- 
natius said  that  the  present  existed  like  sunshine, 
checkered  with  shadows  of  the  past."  He  looked  at 
Helen.  Her  pale  face  was  glowing  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun.  "  But  let  us  forget  the  shadows, 
now,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  rising  slowly.  '  Your 


234  THE    GREEN   VASE 

face  reflects  the  brightness  of  the  sky.  Please  God, 
some  little  of  it  may  shine  through  into  your 
heart." 

She  smiled  at  him.     "  At  least  I  know  that  you 
love  me,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

"  I  AM  thankful  that  you  have  come,  Father,"  Stephen 
said.  I  meant  to  send  for  you  this  morning.  I  have 
been  very  sick  again." 

'  Yes,  my  son,  I  have  heard,"  Father  Ignatius  an- 
swered, laying  his  flat  black  hat  on  Stephen's  desk. 
"  I  have  prayed  for  you,  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
to  St.  Stephen,  Martyr,  he  who  appears  to  me  your 
spiritual  ancestor.  But  alas,  my  son,  it  is  not  for  the 
faith  you  would  die,  but  for  the  pleasures  and  the 
lusts  of  this  evil  world."  He  sat  in  a  deep  chair 
and  leaned  toward  Stephen,  his  elbows  resting  on  the 
arms,  his  fingers  tip  to  tip.  His  white  hair  stood  out 
stiffly  around  the  shaven  spot  on  his  head.  He  sat 
absolutely  without  motion,  the  lines  of  his  body  re- 
laxed. Only  his  large  black  eyes,  young  eyes  in  an 
ancient  face,  seemed  alive  with  the  flame  of  his  ear- 
nestness. He  spoke  slowly  and  very  precisely,  care- 
ful of  each  word  that  passed  between  his  lips,  as 
though  using  an  instrument  with  which  he  had  long 
been  familiar  but  seldom  used. 

"The  pleasures  and  lusts,  Father?     Does  life  in 
the  desert  seem  to  you  to  cater  to  these?  " 

235 


236  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  There  are  pleasures  and  lusts  of  the  mind  as  of 
the  physical  body.  There  is  the — shall  I  say  inverted 
pleasure? — of  moral  cowardice.  You  may  say  to  me 
that  for  a  man  to  make  confession  is  weak.  I  say 
that  to  make  confession  is  strong.  It  is  the  acceptance 
of  the  greater  pain  over  the  lesser.  True — it  brings 
in  its  train  peace,  but  a  peace  that  is  hypothetically 
to  be  reached  through  the  acuteness  of  suffering  that 
attends  confession,  is  one  that  only  a  strong  man  seeks 
to  reach." 

"  Why  do  you  say  these  things  to  me?  " 

"  Because  you  have  a  great  sin  that  weighs  you 
down,  that  cries  to  be  told." 

"  Why  do  you  think  this  of  me?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  this  thing.  I  know.  You  are 
without  peace.  When  your  beautiful  wife  comes  to 
you  the  love  in  your  eyes  is  love  that  has  no  calm. 
When  your  child  comes  to  your  knee  you  look  at 
him  not  as  a  father  should  look  at  his  child,  but  with 
eyes  that  beseech  his  pure  sight  not  to  pry  deeply  into 
your  nature.  It  is  as  though  he  were  another's  child." 

Stephen  started,  but  the  priest  was  gazing  out  over 
the  plains,  beyond  the  white  town  to  the  brown  and 
blue  hills  beyond.  "  Can  you  see  what  others  cannot 
see?  "  Stephen  asked  hoarsely. 

"  I  know  not  what  others  see.     I  only  know  that 


STEPHEN  237 

with  the  eyes  of  compassion  I  see  many  things.  Has 
my  life  not  been  the  giving  of  balm  to  the  sorrowful, 
and  shall  I  not  see  sorrow  where  it  exists?  " 

"  And  can  your  religion  relieve  such  sorrow 
as  mine — such  sorrow  as  you  conceive  me  to 
have?" 

"  The  compassion  of  God  is  past  understanding. 
It  can  relieve  the  burden  of  sin,  and  the  burden  of 
sin  is  sorrow." 

Stephen  struggled  with  himself.  The  impulse  to 
tell  was  strong,  but  the  self-repression  of  the  Puritan 
died  hard.  It  was  not  of  himself  he  thought,  but 
of  Helen.  Of  what  use  to  her  future  would  there  be 
in  a  personal  confession  to  this  man?  ;<  Tell  me," 
he  said,  groping  for  an  opening  that  would  not  be 
a  revelation.  "  Is  a  marriage  between  Protestants 
valid?" 

"  It  is  a  binding  contract,"  the  priest  answered. 
"  There  is  no  sacrament." 

"  Then  is  the  breaking  of  such  a  marriage  as  much 
a  sin  as  would  be  the  breaking  of  a  Catholic  mar- 
riage? " 

"  A  Catholic  marriage  could  never  be  dissolved. 
Unfaithfulness  to  marriage  vows  would  be  desecra- 
tion of  a  sacrament  and  would  be  therefore  a  capital 
sin.  But,  my  son,  it  is  idle  to  weigh  sins  in  the 


238  THE   GREEN   VASE 

balance  with  each  other.  Weigh  them  rather  in  the 
balance  with  repentance." 

"  God  knows  I  have  repented  bitterly  enough !  " 
Stephen  cried  involuntarily. 

"Enough  to  make  restitution?"  the  priest  asked 
sternly.  "  Repentance  without  fruits  is  the  vanity  of 
vanities." 

"Restitution?"  Stephen  whispered.  "Can  God 
be  so  cruel?  Even  the  civil  law  is  more  merciful. 
The  thief  who  steals  my  money  is  punished,  but  if 
the  money  is  gone  he  does  not  have  to  make  it  good." 

"  He  must  pay  to  the  extent  of  his  possessions,  and 
if  punishment  bring  repentance  he  works  until  he  has 
gained  more  possessions  wherewith  to  pay." 

Stephen  shrank  back  into  the  corner  of  the  ham- 
mock. His  face  was  grey.  "  I  should  not  ask  that 
of  him,"  he  said,  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  strip 
him." 

"  God  asks  full  payment.  When  payment  is  made 
he  clothes  the  sinner  in  white  garments  and  makes 
him  rich  with  riches  he  has  never  known." 

Stephen  laughed  bitterly.  "  This  is  aphorism.  But 
no  truth  stands  without  its  exception.  What  if  resti- 
tution be  death?  " 

14  Then  the  reward  is  everlasting  life  in  the  glory 
of  Heaven." 


STEPHEN  239 

"  And  even  that  reward  may  be  mean  in  comparison 
with  the  sacrifice.  You  cannot  conceive  it,  for  your 
eyes  are  fixed  on  Heaven.  To  me  the  glories  that 
are  bright  in  your  eyes  pale  before  the  sunshine  of 
this  earth."  He  stopped  abruptly,  and  then  went 
on:  "  But  you  will  not  think  only  evil  of  me,  Father. 
I  am  groping  in  my  darkness  and  I  need  your  hand 
— I,  a  Unitarian  and  one  who  calls  himself  a  philos- 
opher. Let  me  still  do  my  little  good  while  I  may. 
Perhaps  it  will  turn  the  balance  in  my  favour,  and 
perhaps — though  I  do  not  think  it — as  the  sun  of 
this  life  grows  dimmer — my  time  is  short  now — I  may 
be  able  to  see  your  light.  I  shall  never  shut  my  eyes 
against  it." 

"  And  I  shall  pray  without  ceasing,"  the  priest  said 
simply.  "  Shall  I  go  now?  " 

"  No,  not  yet.  Helen  is  riding,  and  I  like  to  hear 
you  talk.  Tell  me  more  about  the  Mission.  Has 
the  old  Indian  woman  heard  from  her  son?  " 

They  sat  talking  for  an  hour,  Father  Ignatius  tell- 
ing him  of  the  work  among  the  Indians  and  with  it 
calling  up  many  of  the  old  customs  and  legends  of 
the  people.  He  treated  them  all  with  quaint  toler- 
ance and  often  illuminating  humour.  These  people 
were  all  his  children,  the  tricky  flock  that  he  strug- 
gled to  keep  in  the  road  that  would  lead  them  straight 


24o  THE   GREEN  VASE 

to  the  gates  of  Heaven.  He  never  blamed  them  too 
sorely.  If  one  got  drunk  and  beat  his  mother,  Father 
Ignatius  would  seek  excuses.  "  They  always  treated 
serpents  as  holy,  you  know,"  he  would  say.  "  It  is 
inheritance,  the  trace  of  which  must  slowly  be  eradi- 
cated." Even  in  telling  an  amusing  story  his  words 
were  the  words  of  books. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  when  the  western  hills  threw 
their  shadows  to  the  edge  of  the  town  where  the 
buildings  of  the  University  of  Arizona  dominated  the 
desert,  "  now  I  must  go.  It  is  a  long  walk  to  the 
Mission  where  my  children  always  wait  for  me.  And 
for  you,  my  son,  I  shall  pray,  and  when  the  time  is 
fulfilled  you  will  speak,  reaching  out  your  hands  for 
the  gifts  of  Holy  Church."  He  held  out  his  hands 
and  blessed  Stephen ;  then,  lifting  his  skirts,  he  pulled 
them  through  his  cincture  to  give  his  legs  free  play 
and  turned  away  through  the  garden. 

Stephen  watched  the  black-robed  figure  as  it  passed 
rapidly  down  the  path  between  the  fan-palms.  He 
felt  a  peculiar,  shrinking  fondness  for  the  old  priest, 
whose  vision  of  life  and  death  was  so  untainted  with 
earthy  passion.  The  eye  of  Faith !  Its  vision  had 
the  intensity  of  concentration  and  its  undisturbed  joy. 
Stephen  longed  for  it  and  yet  drew  away.  Could  the 
glory  that  streamed  through  the  wicket  gate,  flooding 


STEPHEN  241 

the  straight  and  narrow  way,  compensate  for  the 
pleasant,  troubling  visions  of  sun-washed  fields  that 
his  broader  outlook  caught  beyond  the  walls?  He 
smiled  at  the  thought  that  he  was  interpreting  Cath- 
olic faith  in  terms  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  that 
he  was  setting  Father  Ignatius  on  the  path  that  led 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  where 
the  wornout  giant,  Pope,  sat  grinning  and  doddering 
at  the  mouth  of  his  cave.  Suddenly  he  remembered 
his  scornful  comments  on  the  Church  years  before, 
when  he  had  called  it  illogical.  He  was  wrong,  but, 
as  Moncrieff  had  said,  it  was  not  the  logic  that  ap- 
pealed so  keenly;  it  was  the  continual  compassion, 
the  stupendous  promises  that  drew  him. 

Moncrieff  had  been  wise  in  all  he  said — Stephen 
saw  it  now — a  kind  of  devilish,  worldly  wisdom,  that 
understood  man's  lower  cravings  as  Father  Ignatius 
understood  the  higher.  It  had  been  the  wisdom  of 
the  serpent — too  general,  Stephen  had  often  re- 
minded him,  to  be  intense — but  it  had  been  more 
than  that  because  Moncrieff  knew  men  with  a  vivid- 
ness that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  balance,  men- 
tally, the  ratio  between  temptation  and  character; 
that  had  made  him  able  to  prophesy  with  appalling 
accuracy.  Stephen  felt  that  he  hated  him,  and  yet 
found  himself  longing  for  him,  for  his  acrid  com- 


242  THE   GREEN   VASE 

ment  on  men  and  women,  for  a  touch  once  more  of 
masculine  companionship.  He  could  not  think  of  the 
doctor  and  the  priest  as  men. 

Then  Helen  came  out  to  him,  letters  in  her  hand, 
and  a  package.  "  Here  are  the  prints,  I  think,  dear," 
she  said.  "  They  came  in  a  box  from  Boston.  I  had 
Pedro  open  it." 

"  Hurrah !  "  he  cried.  "  Let's  open  them  immedi- 
ately. The  letters  can  wait.  Come,  we  will  look  at 
them  together.  It  is  terrible  to  think  how  long  they 
have  been  lying  in  the  house  on  Beacon  Hill.  I 
should  have  sent  for  them  years  ago." 

She  pulled  up  a  light  table  and  cut  the  string  around 
the  package,  then  sat  beside  him  to  look  at  the  prints. 
He  was  as  thrilled  as  a  child  on  Christmas  morning. 
There  was  the  joy  of  discovery,  made  keener  by  the 
new  finding  of  old  friends.  For  Helen,  too,  it  was 
a  delight,  since  under  his  tutelage  she  had  learned 
to  share  his  enthusiasm  for  the  delicate,  Oriental  re- 
finement of  these  lovely  pictures.  Yet  these  particular 
prints  could  never  have  for  her,  she  thought,  the  inti- 
mate charm  of  those  they  had  found  together.  These 
represented  Stephen's  old  life,  in  which  she  had  no 
part.  Her  only  hope  was  that  through  them  she 
might  be  able  to  live  back  into  that  life,  thus  per- 
haps gathering  another  of  the  many  threads  that 


STEPHEN  243 

went  to  make  up  the  unknown  pattern  of  her  own 
past. 

He  turned  over  the  pictures  one  by  one,  comment- 
ing or  asking  her  opinion.  "  See  this  one — a  real 
Moronobu.  I  found  it  in  Kioto  just  after  I  left  col- 
lege. I  don't  believe  there  is  a  better  in  America. 
If  you  had  only  been  with  me,  how  much  more  faith- 
fully we  should  have  searched — and  what  treasures 
we  should  have  found.  But  you  were  a  cunning  little 
girl  then — all  pink  ribbons  and  pigtails." 
"  Not  many  pink  ribbons,  I  am  afraid." 
"  You  poor  child.  But  look.  Here  are  the 
Harunobus.  How  I  loved  him  and  how  I  love  him 
still.  This  one — isn't  it  lovely?  Look  at  the  curves 
— he  sometimes  attained  to  the  perfect  line,  I  think. 
And  then — oh,  Helen — this  one!  For  years  I  kept 
it  always  beside  me,  on  my  table  in  Boston.  The 
young  daughter  of  the  house  has  just  finished  her 
morning  duties  and  is  looking  at  a  pet  mouse  her 
brother  is  holding,  and  she  says — it's  not  my  trans- 
lation— 

'  I've  dusted  as  our  mother  bade 

And  yet  have  left  one  stain  ; 
How  could  I  brush  the  pine-tree  shade 

From  off  the  window-pane  ? ' 

It  is  miserable  verse — not  half  so  poetic  as  the  print. 
Look  at  the  shadow  of  the  pine  across  the  pale,  paper 


244  THE   GREEN   VASE 

screen.  And  the  perfect  union  of  sentiment  and  exe- 
cution— simplicity,  domestic  charm Helen,  my 

darling,  what  is  it?  " 

She  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  closed, 
the  smooth  lines  of  her  face  twisted  with  pain. 
"Helen,  dear!  "  He  sought  vainly  for  anything  he 
might  have  said  to  hurt  her.  "  Helen !  "  His  voice 
betrayed  his  terror.  Slowly  her  eyes  opened  and  she 
gazed  at  him  with  the  same  piteous  questioning  of 
years  ago  when  he  had  told  her  she  was  to  have  a 
child. 

She  leaned  across  the  table,  covering  the  print 
with  her  arms.  "  Stephen,"  she  whispered  at  last. 
"  I  have  seen  that  print  before — in  the  dead  days." 

'  You  have  seen  the  reproduction  in  Fenollosa's 
book.  Because  it  is  familiar  you  think  it  carries  you 
back." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no.  I  have  seen  that 
very  print."  Her  eyes  dilated  and  she  stared  at  the 
blank  wall  as  though  seeing  a  vision.  She  spoke 
rapidly,  in  monotone,  the  words  forced  from  her, 
charged  with  an  under-note  of  suffering.  "  I  see  a 
big  dark  room — nothing  is  clear — but  you  are  there, 
and  the  air  is  alive  with  passion.  Only  that  print  is 
definite.  It  shines  up  through  the  black  shadows  on 
the  table.  It  is  the  only  true  thing  there.  I  keep 


STEPHEN  245 

my  eyes  fixed  on  it  as  though  it  had  the  power  to 
save.  I  shrink  from  you  and  then  the  shadow  comes 
— the  shadow  of  the  desert — but  more  real,  standing 
out  from  the  other  shadows.  And  I  shrink  from  it — 
shrink  and  yet  long  for  it.  And  there  is  the  noise  of 

wind  in  trees  and  of  voices,  and  then It  is  gone, 

all  gone — the  page  that  I  almost  read.  Stephen,  what 
does  it  mean?  " 

His  eyes  fell  before  her  gaze.  "  I  do  not  know," 
he  answered. 

She  stood  up  quickly  and  he  watched  her  as  she 
walked  firmly  to  the  door.  She  turned  toward  him, 
and  he  saw  that  her  cheeks  were  blazing  with  the  first 
real  anger  he  had  seen  there.  "  Never  before  have 
you  lied  to  me,"  she  said,  and  left  him. 

He  felt  as  though  he  was  shriveling  to  nothing  in 
his  chair.  Was  this  the  end?  It  was  true — he  had 
never  lied  to  her  before.  But  their  whole  intercourse 
had  been  founded  on  a  lie — the  lie  of  death  become 
the  lie  of  life.  Not  much  longer  could  he  play  the 
game.  He  had  no  longer  any  strength,  no  longer 
any  courage.  He  took  up  the  print  to  tear  it  to  bits. 
And  then  he  suddenly  remembered.  She  had  said  it 
was  "  the  only  true  thing  there."  He  let  it  fall  from 
his  hands  and  watched  it  flutter  to  the  floor,  where 
it  lay,  shining  in  the  last  gleam  of  sunlight.  He 


246  THE    GREEN   VASE 

turned  to  the  door  where  Helen  had  vanished.  It 
was  open,  and  through  the  opening  he  could  see  the 
dark,  empty  room.  It  seemed  to  him  suddenly  to 
be  typical  of  his  own  future — the  darkness,  the 
emptiness.  Through  his  soul  Helen  had  passed  like 
a  flame,  and  the  passing  of  her,  that  had  been  glory, 
was  ending  in  tragic  night.  And  yet,  could  it  even  be 
dignified  with  the  high  name  of  tragedy?  He  seized 
the  corners  of  the  table  with  his  withered  hands  and 
stared,  as  she  had  done,  at  the  blank  wall.  To  him 
it  yielded  no  visions.  He  turned  toward  the  desert. 
It  typified  the  immensity  of  his  desolation,  but  with 
a  tragic  beauty  in  which  he  had  no  part,  in  which 
he  felt  like  a  shameless,  mean  intruder.  Years  ago  his 
sin  had  seemed  to  him  the  fulfilment  of  the  joy  of 
life.  To-day  it  took  on  the  loathsome  aspect  of  a 
common  theft,  bolstered  up  by  common  lies.  And 
in  the  desert — there  was  no  hiding-place.  That  might 
be  found  in  teeming  city  streets,  never  in  these  plains, 
pitilessly  open  to  the  all-seeing  sky — a  place  where  a 
sinless  man  might  make  merry  with  the  eternities, 
but  where  the  sinner  must  crouch  in  bitter  communion 
with  his  inner  agony,  until  death.  To  Stephen  not 
even  the  growing  darkness,  that  was  born  in  the 
valleys,  that  welled  up  over  their  brink,  and  that  even 
now,  like  grey  water,  was  overflowing  the  plains  and 


STEPHEN  247 

reaching  out  toward  the  foothills — not  even  the  dark- 
ness offered  shelter.  When  it  had  enveloped  the 
world  the  myriad  eyes  of  heaven  would  open  and 
gaze  down  mockingly  through  the  long  hours  of  the 
night,  watching  his  misery.  For  he  would  be  alone. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  years  of  his  deceit  had 
culminated  in  that  little,  direct  lie,  and  that  at  last  a 
wall  stood  between  them  that  neither  could  ever  pene- 
trate. 

Unless  it  were  the  child !  Might  not  Harry's  ex- 
quisite innocence  prove  a  door  through  which  might 
stream  from  the  warmth  of  Helen's  heart  a  shaft  of 
yellow  sunshine  to  cheer,  once  more,  the  cold  cells  of 
his?  But  why  the  boy?  In  him  Stephen  had  no 
part.  He  was  but  another  aspect  of  the  lie,  for  him 
— and  for  Helen,  all  in  all.  He  put  his  arms  across 
the  prints  and  let  his  head  sink  down.  He  was  con- 
scious that  tears  were  dropping  from  his  eyes.  But 
he  was  not  a  woman.  The  tears  brought  no  relief. 
They  were  the  terrible  expression  of  pain  too  all- 
absorbing  to  be  longer  held  in  check. 

So  he  sat  while  night  swept  up  from  the  valleys. 
A  sudden  gust  of  chill  air  caught  up  the  neglected 
letters,  scattering  them  over  the  grass  of  the  lawn. 

And  then,  at  last,  Helen  came  to  him  again.  The 
touch  of  her  hand  on  his  hair  made  him  tremble  in 


248  THE    GREEN   VASE 

every  nerve.  He  had  thought  of  her,  somehow,  as 
far  away,  lost  to  him  forever.  "I  let  Harry  stay 
with  you  because  I  thought  he  might  comfort  you  for 
my  cruelty,  dear.  Sometimes  I  forget.  Have  you 
sent  him  in?"  She  spoke  gently  and  the  gentleness 
in  her  voice  caught  him  before  he  grasped  the  mean- 
ing of  her  words.  He  rubbed  his  sleeve  across  his 
eyes  like  a  little  boy  and  caught  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I  am  not  weak  enough  to  mistake  justice  for 
cruelty,"  he  said,  and  then — "  the  boy  has  not  been 
with  me." 

She  drew  away  from  him  sharply.  "  Not  been 
with  you?  Miss  Gordon  said  he  came  out  here  an 
hour  ago."  She  ran  into  the  house,  and  he  heard  her 
call.  "  Miss  Gordon,  Harry  is  not  with  his  father. 
Where  can  he  have  gone?"  He  listened  dully  to 
the  noises  in  the  house,  the  running  of  people,  the 
calling,  within  doors  and  in  the  garden.  She  had  for- 
gotten him — at  the  first  hint  of  danger  to  her  son. 
His  suffering  was  nothing  to  her.  She  came  onto  the 
veranda  again,  a  lamp  in  her  hand  that  brought  out 
all  the  beauty  of  her  face  and  the  horror  in  her  eyes. 
She  did  not  even  glance  at  him.  She  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  steps,  peering  vainly  into  the  darkness,  and 
shivering.  After  a  while  the  servants  came  toward 
her  from  various  parts  of  the  garden-  "  Madam, 


STEPHEN  249 

we  do  not  find  him,"  they  said,  one  after  another, 
and  the  last  added,  "  The  little  gate  to  the  south 
that  leads  to  the  Mission  is  open." 

"  Father  Ignatius  forgot  to  close  it,"  she  cried  bit- 
terly, "  the  miserable,  meddling  old  man.  And  you, 
Stephen,"  she  said,  turning  toward  him,  "  you  sit 
there  impotent  and  useless  when  my  son,  my  own 
little  son,  has  gone  out  into  the  desert  alone."  The 
very  sound  of  her  voice  carried  in  it  the  terror  of 
the  desert,  that  feeling  that  is  always  dormant  under 
the  love  of  those  who  love  the  yellow  sand, 
and  the  grey  sage  brush,  and  the  wide,  painted 
plains. 

It  roused  Stephen  at  last.  He  seized  a  lantern 
from  the  wall,  lighted  it,  and  strode  across  the 
veranda  like  a  strong  man.  "  I  will  bring  him  back 
to  you,"  he  said.  Then  he  turned  to  the  frightened 
servants.  "  You  men — get  lanterns  and  go  to  search 
for  him,  in  all  the  lands  to  the  south  near  our  com- 
pound. "  You,"  pointing  to  another,  "  make  a  bon- 
fire on  the  hill  yonder.  And  you — ride  to  the  town 
and  get  aid  at  the  police  station.  You,  Helen,  stay 
here,  and  see  that  everything  is  done  as  I  have  or- 
dered. When  the  searching  party  arrives  from  Tuc- 
son, see  that  they  go  in  the  right  direction.  The 
bonfire  will  show  them  the  way  back." 


250  THE    GREEN   VASE 

"And  you,  Stephen?"  she  said,  "where  are  you 
going?" 

"  To  find  the  boy."  He  kissed  her  and  started 
down  the  steps. 

"  But,  Stephen — you  are  not  strong  enough  to 
walk." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  pressed  forward  across 
the  garden  and  out  through  the  open  gate.  Before 
him  was  the  desert,  east,  west,  south,  dark,  so  that 
all  outlines  were  lost.  Only  his  lantern  cast  a  narrow 
circle  of  light.  But  his  mind  glowed  with  the  vivid- 
ness of  his  thought.  Every  fibre  of  him  was  respond- 
ing to  the  call.  He  was  sure  of  himself  as  he  had  not 
been  since  the  old  days  before  Helen  had  risen  above 
his  horizon.  Now  he  tried  to  think  as  the  child  must 
have  thought  when  he  came  out  of  the  gate  an  hour 
and  a  half  before.  There  was  a  path,  a  narrow,  yel- 
low trail  that  zigzagged  among  the  hummocks  and 
hollows  of  the  desert.  Harry  would  probably  have 
followed  that  until  some  particularly  alluring  pile 
of  rocks  or  bit  of  chapparal  enticed  him  away.  So 
Stephen  watched  carefully,  as  far  as  the  rays  of  the 
lantern  allowed,  calling  now  and  then,  following  each 
likely  lead  until  it  ended  in  a  gully,  worn  by  primeval 
storms;  or  again,  perhaps,  in  a  clump  of  impenetrable 
cacti.  Then  he  returned  to  the  path  and  proceeded 


STEPHEN  251 

ever  eastward.  Once  he  looked  back  and  saw  the 
quivering  signal  of  the  bonfire  and  specks  of  dancing 
light  that  were  the  lanterns  of  the  searchers.  Once 
or  twice  he  stumbled.  His  legs  trembled  and  his 
breath  came  in  gasps.  But  he  fought  off  his  faint- 
ness,  for  he  had  a  work  to  do. 

Suddenly  he  heard  in  the  distance  ahead  of  him 
a  man's  voice,  singing.  He  stopped  to  listen.  It 
was  unbelievable,  a  disembodied  voice,  crooning,  as 
though  a  lullaby.  He  stopped  to  listen  with  an 
amazement  that  was  akin  to  terror.  Was  he  losing 
his  mind?  He  tried  then  not  to  listen,  not  to  be- 
lieve. There  was  no  light,  nothing  to  guide  the  foot- 
steps of  a  man,  yet  the  voice  came  steadily  nearer. 
At  last  he  could  distinguish  the  words — "  A*ue  'Maria, 
gratia  plena."  He  sat  down  abruptly  on  the  ground. 
He  could  no  longer  stand.  And  still  the  song  sounded 
clearer  until  the  singer  came  close  at  hand  and 
Stephen  could  hear  his  footsteps  crunching  on  the 
gravel.  Then  suddenly  it  stopped  and  the  vast  silence 
of  the  desert  closed  in.  But  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  voice  called  softly  in  Spanish,  "  Who  is 
there?" 

Stephen  tried  to  answer,  but  no  sound  came.  "  It 
is  I,  Father  Ignatius,"  the  voice  continued.  "  May 
the  holy  Saints  bless  you  and  care  for  you." 


252  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  It  is  I,  Stephen  Bond,"  he  stammered,  at  last. 

"  Ah,  my  son,  is  it  you?  "  Father  Ignatius  strode 
into  the  light.  "  See,  I  have  a  present  for  you.  Your 
little  son.  He  was  asleep  beside  the  path.  And  here 
is  his  little  whip.  He  had  gone  into  the  desert  to 
kill  a  rattlesnake,  like  his  beautiful  mother.  But  see, 
he  sleeps  still.  I  was  singing  to  him  as  a  lullaby  the 
only  song  I  know,  the  hymn  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
Ah — how  sweet  is  the  sleep  of  childhood,  trusting  al- 
ways in  the  might  of  Providence." 

Stephen  leaned  forward,  his  head  against  his  knees. 
"  I  thank  God,"  he  said  brokenly,  "  and  I  pray  Him 
to  bless  you  as  you  have  blessed  us.  Take  the  child 
home  to  his  mother — and  then  send  the  men  for  me. 
My  strength  is  gone." 

"  I  go,"  the  priest  answered,  "  and  I  leave  you  in 
the  care  of  Heaven.  See  the  stars — the  eyes  of  the 
angels.  They  will  watch  over  you." 


"  I  SHALL  never  forget  it,  Stephen — that  you  almost 
gave  your  life  for  Harry." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  answered  gruffly.  "  Would  any 
man  do  less  for  his  wife's  son.  I  couldn't  let  the  little 
beggar  starve  in  the  desert.  And  besides — I  didn't 
find  him.  Father  Ignatius  did." 

"  That  matters  nothing.  You  did  more  than  your 
best  when  you  would  have  been  justified  in  doing 
nothing." 

"  And  because  I  did  not  continue  swinging  in  my 
hammock  you  thought  it  worth  while  to  nurse  me 
back  into  my  miserable  existence  again." 

"  You  have  all  the  proverbial  harshness  of  the  con- 
valescent," she  said,  laughing — but  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  You  saved  my  life,  Helen.  It's  yours  now — 
yours  to  do  with  as  it  best  pleases  you.  That  is  my 
theory  of  the  reward  for  saving  life." 

"  It  might  prove  a  dangerous  theory,  dear.  A 
life  saved  is  a  gift,  a  very  great  gift,  to  be  sure,  but 
no  more  the  property  of  the  giver  than  is  any  other 
present,  freely  given." 

253 


254  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  You  think  it  a  gift — like  any  other?  Does  it 
entail,  in  your  mind,  no  obligations?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  All  obligation,  yes,  but 
surely  only  obligations  acknowledged  by  the  receiver. 
If,  after  my  accident,  you  had  been  any  other  than 
you  were — my  husband — you  surely  do  not  dream 
that  you  would  have  had  any  right  over  my  life 
other  than  the  right  to  demand  eternal  gratitude. 
Death  itself  no  more  changes  things  than  sleep.  To 
save  from  death — why,  after  all  is  said  and  done, 
my  dear,  it  is  little  more  than  instinct." 

"  But  I  wish,"  Stephen  insisted,  "  to  give  you  my 
life — I  acknowledge  my  obligation.  As  I  took  yours 
and  made  with  it  what  I  would,  so  you  must  take  mine. 
In  no  other  way  can  our  account  be  cleared.  Of  late 
the  thought  has  been  crushing  my  soul  to  hell." 

"  Stephen,"  she  cried.  "  What  do  you  mean  with 
all  this  talk  of  give  and  take.  We  are  each  other's. 
Neither  would  have  a  thought  but  for  the  other's 
good." 

He  laughed  scornfully.  "  Not  a  thought,  perhaps 
— but  as  to  action!  There  is  the  difference.  A 
thought  may  seem  all  bright  and  holy — and  translated 
into  action  it  becomes  damnable — yet  seems  right  at 
first,  because  it  is  the  child  of  the  thought.  But  an 
act  is  never  solitary.  It  sets  in  train  a  thousand  con- 


STEPHEN  255 

sequences.  Its  primal  virtue — or  what  seemed  a 
virtue — is  made  vicious  by  subsequent  events.  I 
dreamed  great  dreams — long  ago,  and  the  world  has 
turned  those  dreams  to  ashes.  They  have  wrecked 
your  life  because  I  did  not  hold,  as  I  thought  I  held, 
the  reins  of  destiny.  I  worshipped  the  god  of  my 
own  reason  and  the  god  had  feet  of  clay  that  have 
crumbled  to  dust.  I  lie  on  my  face  at  last  amid  the 
ruins  that  I  have  caused.  I  crawl  to  your  feet,  you, 
whose  life  my  attempt  to  bless  has  cursed,  and  beg 
for  pity.  For  pity!  "  he  cried,  sitting  up  in  his  bed. 
"  For  your  pity — and  you  will  give  it,  contemptu- 
ously, as  I  deserve.  Your  love  I  have  never  had. 
Do  not  lie,  as  I  have  lied  to  you — everything  about 
me  was  a  lie  except  my  love,  and  the  stupendous  truth 
of  that  made  it  false.  I  leave  you  soon — but,  thank 
God,  with  your  boy  to  comfort  you  in  the  storms  that 
are  to  come.  He  is  the  child  of  the  shadow  and  he 
is  true — there  is  no  taint  in  him." 

"  Stephen !  "  she  whispered.  The  tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  Now  leave  me,"  he  said,  throwing  off  the  bed- 
clothes. "  Dr.  Seward  said  I  might  go  out  to-day. 
I  am  going — to  the  Mission.  There  is  only  a  short 
time  left.  Send  Pedro  to  help  me.  I  must  write 
first.  Have  the  carriage  in  half  an  hour." 


256  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Helen  ran  to  the  bed  and  tried  to  hold  him  back. 
'  You  must  not  go,"  she  cried.  "  I  love  you,  Stephen. 
I  cannot  let  you  go." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  close. 
"  You  love  me?  "  There  was  in  the  few  words  a  note 
of  pleading,  almost  of  hope.  "  But,  no,"  he  said 
suddenly,  pushing  her  away.  "  I  have  done  with  all 
that.  Shall  I  waste  my  little  breath  vainly  try- 
ing to  blow  dead  ashes  into  flame?  I  am  strong 
because  I  have  work  to  do.  Let  me  do  what  I 
can." 

She  walked  a  little  unsteadily  from  the  room  as 
Stephen  got  out  of  bed.  He  did  not  wait  for  Pedro, 
but  began  to  dress  himself,  holding  a  chair  to  keep 
from  falling.  Before  he  had  finished  Pedro  came 
in  and  helped  him  to  the  desk. 

"  Now,  go,"  Stephen  said.  "  See  that  the  carriage 
is  ready  in  half  an  hour.  I  am  going  to  St.  Xavier." 
He  pulled  out  pen  and  paper  and  wrote  rapidly.  The 
days  in  bed  had  not  been  wasted.  While  they  thought 
him  sleeping  he  had  in  reality  been  mapping  out  his 
course.  He  had  no  longer  any  hesitation.  All  he 
prayed  for  was  the  strength  to  continue  to  the  end. 
His  will  had  been  made — craftily  worded,  he  be- 
lieved, so  that  no  lawyer  could  misconstrue  his  mean- 
ing. His  property  was  left  ultimately  to  Harry, 


STEPHEN  257 

although  the  income  was  to  go  to  Helen  during  her 
life.  He  did  not  want  to  give  her  the  chance  to  dis- 
pose of  the  principal.  But  more  important  by  far 
than  any  financial  arrangements,  he  knew,  was  the 
working  out  of  some  plan  whereby  she  might  be  saved 
a  little  of  the  agony  that  she  must  endure  when  she 
had  to  face  the  truth,  alone. 

More  and  more,  in  these  last  days,  Stephen  had 
come  to  feel  that  renunciation  was  possible,  that  the 
last,  struggling  rays  of  his  life  could  only  fade  peace- 
fully into  the  great  darkness  if  all  conflicting  passions, 
all  selfish  desires,  had  been  swept  away.  At  first  the 
thought  of  death  had  been  only  of  the  poignant  sor- 
row of  parting  from  Helen;  then,  as  he  realised  the 
iron  bands  with  which  his  broken  life  bound  her,  he 
had  unselfishly  welcomed  it;  and  then,  in  these  last 
weeks,  had  come  the  maddening  realisation  that  for 
him  death  would  be  release  from  an  unsupportable 
burden — a  burden  which  would  be  transferred  to  her 
beloved  shoulders.  To  make  it  as  little  heavy  for 
her  as  possible — that  was  the  task  that  remained,  and 
that  must  be  accomplished,  even  though  it  meant  that 
he  must  die  like  a  dog,  alone. 

In  less  than  the  half-hour  Stephen  finished  his 
writing,  sealed  and  addressed  it,  and  enclosed  it  in 
another  envelope  on  which  was  the  name  of  Father 


258  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Ignatius.  Then  he  took  his  cane  and  hobbled,  bent 
like  an  old  man,  to  the  front  door. 

Helen  ran  to  him  and  helped  him  across  the 
veranda.  The  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  steps. 
"  Won't  you  let  me  go  with  you,  dear?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  No,"  he  said,  but  very  tenderly.  "  I  have  work 
to  do  that  I  can  best  do  alone.  I  shall  soon  be  at 
home  again,  and  then  I  shall  have  many  things  to 
tell  you,  my  dearest.  I  have  brought  infinite  sorrow 
into  your  life.  Now  I  must  bring  suffering,  too,  but 
I  pray  that  it  may  be  a  healing  pain  this  time." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears  and  he  bent 
low  to  kiss  her  hand.  That  was  all,  except  that  as 
the  carriage  drove  away  he  turned  to  catch  the  last 
glimpse  of  her  white-clad  figure  on  the  steps.  As  he 
passed  the  gate  Harry  saw  him,  and  called  out, 
"  Good-bye,  papa " — he  used  the  term  when  he 
wanted  particuarly  to  show  his  affection — "  can  I 
come,  too?  " 

"  May,  my  boy,"  Stephen  called,  "  not  can.  No, 
not  to-day.  I  am  very  busy.  Some  other  day." 

The  desert  stretched  away  to  the  east,  before  him 
— the  same  ground  he  had  traversed  in  the  blackness 
three  weeks  before — but  to-day  it  was  of  all  colours, 
melting  into  a  glorious  harmony  of  saffron  and  rose 
and  olive.  A  clump  of  straight-growing  cacti  barred 


STEPHEN  259 

the  road  with  black  lines  between  the  squares  of  sun- 
light. Among  them,  in  the  whirl  of  orange  dust, 
Stephen  imagined,  with  instinctive  shrinking,  that  he 
could  see  Helen's  "  shadow,"  that  elusive  ghost  of 
the  past  that  gave  terror  to  the  sun-stained  desert. 
But  on — away  from  dreams  into  realities !  The  time 
was  too  short  for  dreams,  even  here,  in  the  very  home 
of  wild  imaginings.  On  then,  on  toward  the  grey- 
white  walls  of  the  Mission,  so  near,  seemingly,  in  the 
clear,  clean  air,  in  reality  still  so  far  away. 

Stephen  turned  to  the  Mexican  who  was  driving 
and  spoke  to  him  in  Spanish.  "  Do  you  ever  dream, 
Pedro?" 

"Dream,  senor?  Yes,  often  at  night — but  more 
often  in  the  day,  when  the  desert  has  cast  its  spell." 

"You,  too.     The  desert  makes  you  dream?" 

"  It  does  so  to  every  one,  senor.  There  is  en- 
chantment in  the  desert  to  all  who  live  in  it." 

"  And  does  it  seem  to  you  when  you  are  driving, 
as  now,  that  you  are  driving  into  eternity?" 

"  Not  into  it,  but  rather  in  it,"  he  answered  sim- 
ply. "  Time  and  space  have  no  meaning  here.  The 
bright  days  follow  each  other  like  glittering  crystals 
on  an  endless  chain,  and  the  black  nights  are  beads  of 
jet  to  set  off  their  sparkle.  Distance  has  no  meaning. 
The  rock  by  the  roadside  is  no  clearer  than  the  hill 


26o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

over  yonder  under  which  passes  the  old  trail  to 
Phenix.  One  is  always  at  the  beginning  and  always 
at  the  ending." 

"  You  speak  truth,"  Stephen  said  slowly.  "  We 
are  living  in  eternity.  But  death — is  not  that  an 
ending?  " 

"  Or  a  beginning?  I  do  not  know,  because  I  have 
never  died.  Not  in  the  desert,  I  think.  Pain  is 
ended,  and  gladness,  perhaps,  but  not  the  journey. 
That  has  no  end.  The  holy  priests  tell  of  Heaven 
as  a  place  of  golden  streets  and  green  trees  and  flow- 
ing water  that  sings  sweet  songs.  To  a  dweller  in 
the  desert  such  a  heaven  cannot  be.  It  is  too  crowded, 
too  noisy.  Only  in  silence  is  peace,  and  peace  is 
Heaven.  When  my  wife  died,  1  was  very  sad,  sefior. 
I  went  out  into  the  desert  alone,  with  water  and 
food.  For  a  week  I  lived  there,  until  the  sun  had 
risen  and  set  seven  times.  And  my  sorrow  went 
away  from  me.  It  vanished  sobbing  into  the  vast 
canons  to  join  its  sister  sorrows.  I  returned  to  my 
home  comforted." 

"  Sorrow — that  I  understand.  But  sin,  Pedro — 
can  the  desert  relieve  of  that  burden?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  Holy  Church  does  that. 
But  she  demands  after  confession,  penitence.  The 
desert  gives  gladness  once  more  to  the  penitent." 


STEPHEN  261 

"  I  can  see  that,"  Stephen  mused.  "  Yes,  I  can 
see  that.  The  calm,  and  utter  purity  of  the  desert 
must  give  the  opportunity  for  personality  to  reestab- 
lish itself.  Among  men  one  cannot  grow  straight 
again.  There  are  too  many  conflicting  passions,  the 
past  is  too  obtrusive  to  give  a  clear  vision  of  the 
future.  It  might  be  so  for  me — if  I  had  time." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  Pedro  said,  as  he  guided 
the  horses  skilfully  across  an  ancient  waterway. 
"  But  what  the  senor  is  pleased  to  say  must  be 
true." 

"  It  is  true,  Pedro,  and  is  what  you  would  have 
said  yourself  in  a  simpler  and  better  way.  One  thing 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  can  understand.  Very 
soon  I  am  going  away.  I  want  you  to  care  for  the 
mistress  and  the  little  boy." 

The  man's  eyes  gleamed.  "As  though  it  were 
necessary  to  ask !  "  he  cried.  "  No  servant  would 
ever  leave  the  beautiful  mistress  and  the  little  senor 
who  is  learning  so  well  to  speak  our  language.  Is  the 
senor  going  into  the  East?" 

"  No,  Pedro.    Into  the  desert — on  the  long  trail." 

Pedro  crossed  himself.  "  God  forbid.  The  master 
will  have  many  years  more  with  us." 

"  It  will  be  as  God  wills,"  Stephen  said.  "  But 
now  He  has  left  me  very  little  time.  Here  we  are 


262  THE   GREEN   VASE 

at  the  Mission.  Stop  at  the  church.  Father  Ig- 
natius will  let  me  in." 

He  stood  at  the  door,  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane 
while  Pedro  went  for  the  priest.  Around  him  was 
the  little,  straggling  Indian  settlement,  the  children, 
in  gaudy  rags,  playing  before  the  doors  of  the  huts 
where  their  mothers  sat  working  over  the  bead  bags 
and  belts  that  brought  them,  a  living.  Beyond  was 
the  hill  where  a  shrine  was  to  be  built  and  a  statue  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin  set  up,  that  in  years  to  come  was 
to  rival  in  miraculous  power  the  wonders  done  by 
Our  Lady  of  Lourdes.  Stephen  smiled  thoughtfully. 
Surely  if  miracles  were  to  be  performed  in  these  mod- 
ern days,  no  place  could  be  so  appropriate  as  the 
desert,  open  wide  to  all  the  influences  of  Heaven. 
Our  Lady,  he  thought,  would  find  it  easier  to  reach 
down  from  the  skies,  more  a  pleasure  to  bathe  her 
white  arms  in  this  limpid  air  than  in  the  mists  of 
southern  France,  tainted,  as  they  were,  with  all  the 
sin  and  civilisation  of  the  Old  World.  Once  more 
he  smiled  at  this  childish  faith,  even  while  he  recog- 
nised it  as  being  greater  in  its  power  than  the  deepest 
learning. 

Father  Ignatius  came  swinging  down  the  road  from 
his  house.  He  was  hatless  and  the  bushy  white  hair 
stood  up  around  his  head.  "  My  son,  welcome,"  he 


STEPHEN  263 

said.  "  It  was  Heaven's  mercy  that  brought  you 
that  night  through  the  desert  alive.  Saint  Stephen 
assuredly  guided  you  on  the  path  to  me.  Your 
strength  would  not  long  have  continued." 

"  Much  more  surely  was  it  Heaven  that  led  you 
to  the  child.  Helen  would  have  died  to  lose 
him." 

"  No — one  does  not  die  of  innocent  sorrow — not 
if  one  has  the  character  of  Mrs.  Bond.  Rather  does 
such  sorrow  wash  clean  the  soul  so  that  it  may  grow 
in  holiness.  It  has  been  the  bereaved  mothers  who 
have  become  spiritual  mothers  of  thousands  who 
would  else  have  been  motherless." 

"  You  must  know,"  Stephen  said.  "  But  I  came  to 
talk  of  myself,  to  ask  your  aid." 

The  priest's  face  lighted.  "  It  has  come  at  last," 
he  cried,  "  the  penitence  that  has  the  courage  to  re- 
nounce. And  you  have  come  to  ask  my  help — the 
only  help  I  have — the  consolation  of  Holy  Church." 
He  put  his  hands  on  Stephen's  shoulders  and  looked 
into  his  eyes. 

"  Not  just  as  you  think,  perhaps,"  Stephen  an- 
swered, but  his  eyes  did  not  waver  before  the  priest's 
gaze.  "  Not  just  as  you  would  have  me  come — not 
as  a  sheep  crying  to  be  admitted  to  the  fold.  I  have 
not — I  can  never  have,  your  faith.  To  pretend  to 


264  THE    GREEN   VASE 

have  it  would  add  one  more  lie — and  I  have  enough 
in  my  record  already.  Can't  you  understand,  Father? 
My  ancestry,  all  my  inheritance  from  three  hundred 
years  and  more,  makes  that  faith  remote.  But  it  has 
taught  me  much — that  penitence  is  not  complete  with- 
out confession,  and  resitution.  Beyond  that  I  cannot 
go  without  a  miracle,  and  there  are  no  longer 
miracles." 

"  It  is  not  as  I  should  have  ordered  it,"  said  Fa- 
ther Ignatius.  "  But  I  am  an  ignorant  man  and 
should  not  presume  to  teach  God.  Nor  is  it  for  me  to 
try  to  understand  His  ways.  And  yet,  my  son,  I  see 
a  miracle  to-day — for  is  not  the  birth  of  truth  the 
greatest  miracle?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  normal  evolution." 

"  Ah — so !  But  is  not  the  power  that  makes  the 
law  of  evolution  above  all  miraculous?  I  care  noth- 
ing what  terms  you  use  so  long  as  the  result  is  conso- 
lation. In  special  ways,  my  son,  how  may  I  aid 
you?" 

"  Just,"  Stephen  answered,  "  by  taking  charge  of 
this  letter.  After  I  die,  please  send  it  to  the  person 
whose  name  is  written  on  the  inner  envelope." 

"  You  are  asking  me  nothing  that  a  priest  should 
not  do?" 

"It  is  unlikely,  Father,  when  I  am  on  the  verge 


STEPHEN  265 

of  death.  The  letter  may  do  much  toward  righting 
the  great  wrong  I  have  done  to  Helen." 

"  It  is  the  years  that  are  lost  from  her  life?  " 

"Yes;  why?" 

"  Much  may  happen  in  a  few  days  that  a  lifetime  is 
needed  to  repair." 

"  Helen  is  guilty  of  nothing — absolutely  noth- 
ing." 

"  That  I  know.  Her  eyes  are  bright  with  inno- 
cence." 

"  It  is  true — and  that  divine  innocence  has  never 
been  marred  with  any  love  of  me.  Her  service  is  duty 
— and  pity." 

Father  Ignatius  bowed  his  head.  "  I  will  take  the 
letter.  Is  there  more?  " 

"  Yes — a  strange  request  for  me,  a  Protestant. 
My  confession  must  be  not  to  you,  but  to  Helen — and 
before  that  to  God.  May  I  be  an  hour  alone  in  the 
church?" 

Without  a  word  Father  Ignatius  stepped  to  the 
huge,  old,  worm-eaten  door  and,  unlocking  it  with 
a  heavy  key  that  hung  from  his  belt,  opened  it. 
"  How  long  shall  you  want?  " 

"  An  hour,"  Stephen  answered.  He  crossed  the 
threshold  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  stone  floor. 
Behind  him  the  great  door  swung  to  and  he  heard 


266  THE   GREEN   VASE 

the  key  grate  in  the  rusted  lock.  He  moved  slowly 
forward  into  the  nave,  breathing  deeply  of  the  cool, 
ancient  air,  almost  imperceptibly  tinged  with  incense 
and  the  still  more  subtle  odour  of  wornout  years.  A 
single  thin  shaft  of  sunlight  fell  across  the  chancel, 
accentuating  the  surrounding  dimness. 

He  was  not  alone.  Painted  saints  and  angels,  their 
crude  outlines  mellowed  against  the  misty  gold  walls, 
looked  down  on  him.  When  he  had  first  seen  the 
church  he  had  laughed,  had  talked  to  Helen  of  the 
vulgar  melodrama  of  it — all  a  cheap  device  to  at- 
tract the  simple  Indians.  That  was  just  after  he  had 
come  to  Arizona.  Now  he  had  become  a  child  of 
the  desert,  realising  that  this  church,  like  the  rare 
desert  flower,  was  an  outgrowth  of  the  soil,  stained 
with  its  violent  colours,  the  hot  exaggeration  of  primal 
things.  At  first  he  had  called  for  a  church  cold  and 
white  and  pure,  symbolic  of  die  austerity  of  the 
Christian  faith.  Now  he  knew  himself  wrong. 
Christianity  should  express  itself  in  conformity  with 
its  surroundings,  clothing  itself  with  infinite  variation 
as  man  puts  on  fur  in  the  cold  North  and  linen  in  the 
hot  South. 

So  this  child  of  the  desert  let  himself  be  absorbed 
into  the  mood  of  the  old  Mission  church.  And  it 
was  a  mood  of  passionate  self-abnegation,  uplifted  like 


STEPHEN  267 

the  daily  sacrifice  through  adoration  of  the  unknown 
deity.  Unknown?  No,  not  to  the  builders  of  the 
church,  Stephen  thought — rather  an  intimate  friend, 
understanding  them  and  all  their  childish  devices  to 
please  him.  So  the  beautiful,  sad-faced  angels  against 
the  buttresses  that  upheld  the  arch  of  the  chancel, 
bowed  in  lowly  wonder  as  they  held  their  silk  flags,  on 
which  was  inscribed  the  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo." 
So,  above  the  altar,  smiling  cherubs  upheld  the  plat- 
form on  which  stood  St.  Francis,  dressed  in  cassock 
and  surplice,  his  face  scarred  with  the  suffering  of 
the  world,  and  yet  forgetting  self  in  compas- 
sion for  others.  And  in  his  hand  was  a  worn 
crucifix. 

Stephen  moved  slowly  up  the  nave,  into  the  chancel, 
to  the  very  steps  of  the  altar,  and  there,  not  reason- 
ing but  feeling,  he  knelt,  leaned  forward  until  his 
forehead  touched  the  cold  stone,  and  at  last  sank  pros- 
trate before  the  crucifix.  There  he  lay,  and  slowly, 
as  his  uncertainty  drained  away,  peace  welled  up  in 
its  place.  It  was  not  happiness,  but  the  dawn  of  hap- 
piness that  rises  out  of  understanding.  He  saw  him- 
self, at  last,  as  he  was.  "  Give  me  time,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  Give  me  time.  I  have  the  courage.  Just 
one  untroubled  day,  undisturbed  with  echoes  from  be- 
yond the  desert.  Here,  in  this  eternal  peace  of  a 


268  THE    GREEN   VASE 

dead  world,  help  me  to  find  my  peace — and  hers." 
It  was  the  first  true  prayer  he  had  breathed  in  years, 
and  as  he  turned  toward  the  door  he  felt  that  the 
saints  on  the  walls  looked  down  with  pity  and  with 
joy. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

STEPHEN  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle,  looking  back 
again  and  again  at  the  dim  chancel,  cut  by  that  one 
misty  shaft  of  sunlight.  He  hesitated  to  go,  fearing 
to  leave  the  peace  of  the  church,  yet  sure  that  outside 
he  would  find  the  equal  peace  of  the  desert,  with  only 
Father  Ignatius  waiting  for  him,  and  Pedro,  with  the 
horses.  They  were  a  part  of  the  desert.  His  other 
friends,  those  of  long  ago,  whom  he  dreaded  now, 
were  far  away.  And  he  had  work  that  called  him. 

He  knocked  on  the  door  and  then  waited  while  the 
key  turned.  At  first  the  sunshine  blinded  him.  He 
put  his  hand  on  the  priest's  arm  to  steady  himself. 

"A  friend  is  here  to  see  you,"  Father  Ignatius 
said.  "  Perhaps  he  comes  as  Heaven's  answer  to  your 
prayers." 

Stephen  drew  away.  "A  friend?  A  stranger  to 
you?  I  am  expecting  no  one.  I  want  no  one. 
Where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  buying  photographs  from  the  Sisters.  I 
could  not  grant  admission  to  the  church  while  you 
were  there.  He  is  coming  now." 

Stephen  turned,  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane.     It 

269 
\ 


270  THE   GREEN   VASE 

was  only  a  short  distance  from  the  convent  door  to 
the  church.  He  looked  in  terror  at  the  man,  and,  as 
he  recognised  Moncrieff,  turned  once  more  abruptly 
to  the  priest,  muttering  brokenly,  but  fiercely,  "  Is  this 
the  answer  your  saints  make  to  my  prayer  for 
peace?  " 

Father  Ignatius  crossed  himelf  and  bowed  his  head. 

"  Hello,  Steve,  old  man,"  Moncrieff  cried  joy- 
ously. "  It's  awfully  jolly  to  see  you  again — but,  my 
Lord,  you  are  looking  seedy.  It's  about  time  I 
turned  up — to  save  you  from  a  lot  of  old  women." 
He  glanced  at  the  priest.  "  Aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"  No." 

Moncrieff  drew  back.  "  By  Jove — but  that  is  a 
cordial  welcome!  And  after  a  man  has  come  three 
thousand  miles  just  to  cheer  you  up." 

"  I  need  no  cheering.  I  need  to  be  left  alone. 
Will  you  return  in  your  own  team,  or  shall  I  take 
you?" 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,  of  course.  I  have  not  come 
this  far  to  go  away  without  seeing  you." 

"  Get  in,  then.  We  can  talk  while  I  drive  you  to 
the  hotel.  There  is  no  train  until  to-morrow.  Good- 
bye, Father.  I  trust  you  to  carry  out  my  commission. 
We  are  ready,  Pedro." 


STEPHEN  271 

"  This  is  idiotic,  Steve,"  Moncrieff  said  angrily  as 
the  horses  started.  "  Have  you  not  yet  forgotten  our 
last  meeting?  We  were  a  couple  of  fools — and  at 
any  rate  the  woman  in  question  is  dead.  I  am  not 
going  to  the  hotel.  You  can  put  me  up.  I  left  my 
bag  with  your  wife " 

"With  my  wife?" 

"  I  supposed  she  was  your  wife." 

"And  you  did  not  recognise  her?  Has  she 
changed  so  much?  It  has  been  the  sorrow,  the  mis- 
understanding, the  misery  of  a  lie."  He  was  speak- 
ing to  himself. 

"She  did  not  look  unhappy  —  as  you  do, 
Steve." 

"Unhappy?"  He  laughed  bitterly — then,  turn- 
ing fiercely  on  Moncrieff :  "  It  does  not  matter  about 
me.  I  am  dead — or  almost.  But,  Helen !  "  He 
pulled  himself  together,  and  continued  with  a  cold, 
ringing  calm :  "  I  could  kill  you  easily,  Phil — here, 
right  now.  You  are  unarmed;  I  never  am.  I  have  to 
be  prepared  for  the  shadows  that  haunt  the  desert — 
lest  they  come  to  life,  to  shatter  Helen's  life — to 
steal  her  boy.  The  boy  she  must  have.  He  is  hers. 
He  bears  his  father's  name — that  was  my  gift  and 
it  is  enough." 

"  Are  you  mad?  " 


272  THE   GREEN  VASE 

"  Never  more  sane.  At  die  end  the  candle  flares 
up  brightly.  You  want  to  go  home  with  me.  You 
shall;  but  you  must  know — when  you  penetrate  at 
last  die  disguise  of  sorrowful  years — that  Helen  is 
pure,  innocent.  She  is  sinless  as  a  saint." 

"And  I  know  this  Helen?  Is  it  possible  she  is 
not  dead?" 

"  She  was.  I  gave  her  life  again.  She  remembers 
no:h:::g — never  has  remembered.  When  the  bridge 
fell  her  life  was  cut  in  two.  The  only  past  she  knows 
is  the  past  she  has  lived  with  me." 

"And  the  child?" 

"  Yes — Murphy's  child.    She  does  not  know." 

"My  God!" 

The  carriage  drove  on,  tossing  up  clouds  of  golden 
dust  diat  swirled  through  the  spiry  cacti,  settled  over 
the  tufted  sage. 

"  Stephen,"  Moncrieff  said  suddenly,  "  you  are  a 
cad." 

"  Perhaps  so.  Certainly  me  name  adds  no  degra- 
dation to  my  thought  of  myself." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  More  pertinent — what  are  you  ?  I  am  going  to 
die." 

"Nonsense — you  mean  to  kill  yourself  after  all 
these  years?" 


STEPHEN  273 

Stephen  laughed  wearily.  "  Oh,  no.  Nothing  so 
heroic  as  that — just  die,  because  the  end  has  come." 

"  And  leave  her  to  discover  the  truth " 

"  Not  that.  I  may  be  a  cad,  but  I  am  no  coward 
now.  I  had  planned  to  tell  her  to-night — unless  your 
coming  makes  it  impossible." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  hotel,  and  West  to-morrow. 
Oh,  Steve,  how  could  you?  " 

"  It  was  a  glorious  smashing  of  dead  traditions." 

"  But  since Have  you  never  thought  of  Mur- 

phy?" 

"  Never.  Perhaps  you  will  not  believe  that — al- 
most never  since  the  shock  of  knowing  she  was  to 
have  a  child.  I  saw  him  once — after  the  accident — 
told  him  I  loved  her  and  that  her  future  was  mine. 
He  said  that  I  might  have  it.  He  had  her  past." 

"  He  believing  her  dead." 

"Yes." 

"Good  God!  What  a  conversation!  And  be- 
cause of  that  you  thought  yourself  justified?" 

"No.  Not  because  of  that.  I  thought  I  was  saving 
her  from  a  life  unworthy  of  her — from  the  all-per- 
vading commonness  that  surrounded  her.  Nothing  is 
more  finally  damnable  than  the  constant  irritation 
of  unimportant,  vulgar  things  from  which  we  cannot 
escape." 


274  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  And  you  thought  crime  more  worthy  of  her— 
less  damnable?  " 

"  I  saw  it  not  as  crime  but  as  conquest — vindication 
of  the  right  of  the  individual  to  choose.  It  was  all 
so  sudden.  I  lost  my  head,  as  you  said  I  should. 

'  The  right  to  choose — did  you  give  her  that 
right?  " 

"  No.  You  are  probing  the  cancer  of  my  soul, 
Phil,  but  I  think  I  want  you  to  understand.  I  put 
it  off  until  she  should  have  the  strength  to  decide — 
really,  I  know  now,  until  she  should  be  so  bound  to 
me  that  she  could  only  decide  in  my  way.  She  was 
happy — in  a  way,  and  I  thought  she  might  come  to 
love  me.  She  never  has,  but  I  fought  for  my  dream." 

"  And  yet  now  you  give  up?  " 

"  At  last  my  punishment  has  made  me  see.  It  was 
punishment,  Phil.  There  is  none  worse  than  fighting 
for  the  love  of  a  woman  who  can  never  love  in  re- 
turn. Gradually  the  agony  has  grown — the  knowl- 
edge that  instead  of  blessing  I  have  cursed  her.  And 
I  love  her  still.  You  never  understood  her — or  me. 
In  these  months  when  I  have  seen  death  coming — 
oh,  I  have  not  whined  about  it — my  one  terror  has 
been  that  when  I  told  her  she  would  leave  me.  I  did 
not  dare  to  die  alone,  and  that  bound  my  tongue. 
Now — at  last — I  dare  even  that.  The  only  thing  I 


STEPHEN  275 

fear  is  the  lie,  my  life  and  hers.  That  she  must 
understand  and  she  must  learn  it  from  me.  Perhaps, 
if  she  will  let  me  do  one  good  deed,  I  can  help  her 
plan  her  future.  That  is  my  only  hope." 

Again  there  was  silence  except  for  the  padding  of 
the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  &oft  road.  Suddenly  Mon- 
crieff  put  his  arm  across  Stephen's  shoulders.  "  Let 
me  help,  old  man,"  he  said  brokenly.  "  I  can  under- 
stand a  little — I  who  have  only  played  about  the  skirts 
of  love  and  burned  my  fingers  through  my  clumsiness. 
I  have  dared  some  things  for  a  surface  love.  I  have 
no  right  to  judge  of  the  love  I  am  not  man  enough 
to  feel." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  stay  with  me,  Phil.  It  will  be 
for  only  a  few  days  and  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with 
complaints.  I  know  now  that  whatever  comes  is 
right." 

"  Of  course  I  will  stay — but — I  do  not  think  she 
will  leave  you." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  do  not  know.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, you  will  be  kind  to  her,  Phil?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  could  not  blame  her  if  she  left.  I 
should  worship  her  if  she  stayed.  This  is  your  place, 
isn't  it?  An  awfully  jolly  little  house  and  a  location 
fit  for  the  gods." 

"  Yes.    There  is  the  boy,  playing  in  the  fountain." 


276  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  And  his  mother  with  him?  "  Moncrieff  asked. 

"  No;  that's  Miss  Gordon,  his  nurse." 

"  She  was  the  person  I  saw.  No  wonder  I  did  not 
recognise  her." 

Stephen  did  not  notice.  "  There  is  Helen — on  the 
steps,  waiting  for  me,  as  she  always  waits,  God  bless 
her." 

Moncrieff  saw  her  through  the  palms  as  the  car- 
riage passed  along  the  white  driveway.  "  A  lady!  " 
he  muttered,  "  but  I  should  have  known  her." 

Stephen  turned  toward  him  scornfully.  "  I  am 
glad  you  realise  at  last.  You  were  dense  enough  in 
Boston." 

The  carriage  stopped  with  Pedro's  usual  flourish 
of  the  whip  and  pretence  of  difficulty  with  the  horses. 
Helen  came  halfway  down  the  steps  and  stopped, 
looking  at  Moncrieff  with  startled  eyes. 

"  This  is  my  friend,  Philip  Moncrieff,  Helen,  from 
London  and  Boston.  He  has  come  to  see  how  we 
live  in  Arizona." 

Moncrieff  jumped  from  the  carriage.  "  You 
are  not  the  one  I  saw  an  hour  ago,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  had  been  perhaps  I  should  not  have  gone 
on." 

Helen  smiled.  "  Oh,  yes,  you  would.  We  had 
not  been  introduced,  you  know." 


STEPHEN  277 

"  No,"  he  assented.  "  Of  course.  We  had  not 
been  introduced.  But  an  old  friend  of  Steve's  as  I 
am — we  must  have  many  common  memories." 

She  grew  pale  and  her  lips  trembled.  Then  she 
ran  down  the  steps  to  take  Stephen's  arm  as  Pedro 
helped  him  from  the  carriage.  Together  they  sup- 
ported him  to  his  hammock.  Helen  turned  once  more 
to  Moncrieff.  "  Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said 
gently.  "  Stephen  needs  cheering,  poor  boy.  He 
has  lived  too  long  with  women.  He  will  grow  strong 
again  if  he  has  a  man  beside  him." 

"  I  have  always  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
cheerful  person,"  Moncrieff  said,  smiling — "  but  my 
wit,  what  I  have,  is  not  the  vain  simplicity  of  bub- 
bling, childish  merriment.  My  model  is  Pope.  I 
have  knocked  about  among  people  too  much  to  ap- 
preciate any  other  humour  than  satire.  Everything 
is  rotten,  you  know,  really,  and  my  mission  is  to  toss 
about  the  mud  artistically." 

"  Yet  you  are  not  a  good  satirist,  Phil,"  Stephen 
said.  "  True  satire  plays  with  truth.  Your  gen- 
eralisations ignore  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  just  now,  Mr.  Moncrieff,"  Helen  broke  in. 
"  There  is  very  little  that  is  rotten  here,  in  the  heart 
of  the  desert." 

Moncrieff  laughed  scornfully.     "  I  could  find  it. 


278  THE   GREEN   VASE 

No  fallacy  is  more  absurd  than  the  idea  that  social 
degeneration  is  confined  to  the  cities.  There  is  moral 
tonic  even  in  association  with  bad  men.  Only  in 
solitude  can  the  poison  spread  until  it  chokes  all  in- 
dependent judgment.  Right  here,  for  example "" 

"Stop!"  Stephen  cried.  "Why  make  Helen 
think  you  are  what  you  are  not,  a  pessimist?  It  is 
always  the  old  trouble,  generalising  without  sufficient 
examples  to  justify  you  and  refusing  to  see  excep- 
tions to  your  rule,  even  when  they  stare  you  in  the 
face." 

"  That's  unfair,  Steve.  I  have  recognised  to-day 
two  errors  of  judgment,  one  as  to  you,  and  the  other 
as  to — this  lady." 

Stephen  closed  his  eyes  wearily.  He  was  too 
tired,  too  dead  tired  to  stop  this  futile  chatter.  If 
Moncrieff  was  determined  to  blurt  out  the  truth  he 
must  do  it.  The  end  would  only  come  a  little 
sooner. 

"  Yes,  in  you,"  Moncrieff  went  on,  "  I  mistook  the 
woman  whom  I  saw  here  two  hours  ago  for  you.  I 
thought  she  was  Steve's  wife  and  she  was  not — any 
more  than — well,  than  you  are — my  wife." 

Stephen  watched  him  closely.  He  knew  his  hatred 
of  sham,  his  quick  changes  of  mood,  saw  that  the 
unwilling  but  none  the  less  true  sympathy  of  an  hour 


STEPHEN  279 

ago  had  given  place  to  a  more  normal  spirit  of  ma- 
licious raillery.  And  yet  in  the  essential  things  he 
trusted  him.  Moncrieff  might  unconsciously  make 
Helen  unhappy  by  his  innuendoes.  He  would  never 
make  her  miserable  by  any  brutal  betrayal  of  trust. 
Furthermore,  the  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Al- 
ready the  shadows  were  again  swimming  up  from  the 
valleys,  and  when  it  was  quite  dark,  when  the  desert 
was  asleep,  Stephen  would  tell  her  everything.  After 
that?  At  least  Moncrieff  would  have  no  power  over 
her. 

Miss  Gordon  and  Harry  came  in  from  the  garden. 
She  left  the  boy  with  his  mother. 

"  Go  to  Mr.  Moncrieff,  dear,  and  tell  him  that  you 
are  glad  to  see  him  here." 

The  little  boy  went  gravely  across  the  veranda  and 
held  up  his  face  to  be  kissed.  Moncrieff  drew  back. 
"  I'll  shake  hands,  young  man,"  he  said.  "  Girls  are 
made  for  kissing,  not  boys.  Haven't  you  found  that 
out?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  he  remarked,  apparently 
unheeding,  then  added,  "  I  know  girls  are  better  to 
kiss  than  men.  I  like  to  kiss  my  mother  better  than 
my  father.  Don't  you?" 

"  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  I  can't  answer  that.  I 
never  kissed  either.  He  looks  extraordinarily  like 


28o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

his  father."  Moncrieff  addressed  Helen,  careful 
never  to  use  a  name. 

The  child's  mouth  quivered.  "  I  want  to  look 
like  my  mother,"  he  protested. 

"  You  don't  know  what  a  fine  fellow  your  father  is 
or  you  would  want  to  be  like  him.  He  has  never 
lost  his  nerve — you  don't  know  what  that  means,  but 
write  it  down  on  the  tablets  of  your  memory  to  under- 
stand later." 

The  little  boy  looked  bewildered.  "  I  can't  write 
that,"  he  stammered,  "  but  I  can  write  cat,  c-a-t — 
cat." 

Stephen  was  listening,  but  as  though  in  a  dream. 
It  was  too  impossible  to  be  real — this  frank  talk, 
veiled  though  it  was  for  Helen,  of  a  man  whose  name, 
like  his  memory,  had  been  a  shadow  in  that  house. 
Moncrieff  was  being  consciously  brutal,  but  Stephen's 
vitality  was  at  too  low  an  ebb  for  him  to  feel  the 
force  of  the  blows.  Only  when  he  caught  Helen's 
glance  of  affectionate  appreciation  did  he  really  feel 
sharp  pain.  Her  love  was  dead,  he  knew — what  love 
there  had  ever  been — but  this  supposed  praise  from 
an  old  friend  was  stirring  to  life  the  sparks  in  the 
ashes  of  what  might  have  been.  His  mind  roamed 
back  over  the  years,  tentatively,  vaguely.  The  pic- 
tures had  no  definite  outlines,  except  one,  the  early 


STEPHEN  281 

morning  of  a  grey  Boston  day  when  he  had  gone  into 
Stuyvesant's  office  and  had  found  the  new  secretary 
sorting  the  letters.  She  had  looked  up  at  him  quickly, 
shyly.  He  had  noticed  the  glint  of  the  desk  light  on 
her  bronze  hair,  the  pure  curve  of  her  cheek  and 
neck,  the  ladylike  simplicity  of  her  dress,  her  utter 
lack  of  the  frightened  self-assurance  so  often  char- 
acteristic of  her  class.  He  had  retreated,  more  nearly 
embarrassed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  the  presence 
of  a  woman.  It  was  the  incongruity  of  the  girl  and 
her  surroundings  that  had  impressed  him.  When 
Stuyvesant  came  to  him,  chuckling  over  "  his  find," 
he  had  answered  curtly,  asking  no  questions.  Then 
he  had  dismissed  her  from  his  mind,  because  she  was 
earning  her  living — at  least  he  had  tried  to,  and 
thought  himself  successful  until  she  had  married 
Murphy.  He  did  not  know  why  it  was  this  picture 
that  shut  out  the  reality  of  the  desert  and  the  sunset 
sky.  Perhaps  because  it  was  true,  the  prologue 
of  a  drama  that  was  not  to  be,  unstained  by  the 
tragedy  that  was. 

He  found  it  difficult  to  keep  his  mind  clear,  to 
answer  rationally  the  questions  that  Moncrieff  put 
occasionally.  His  voice  seemed  to  come  from  far 
away.  Their  conversation  was  banal  enough  now, 
discussions  that  Arizonans  can  never  avoid,  never, 


282  THE   GREEN   VASE 

in  fact,  wish  to  avoid,  of  the  untold  wealth  of  the 
land,  once  they  have  water.  Helen  was  as  enthusi- 
astic as  a  native,  and  Stephen  heard  the  talk  flow 
on,  of  oranges,  and  mines,  and  ostriches.  He  watched 
the  last  saffron  tint  fade  from  the  Tucson  mountains, 
and  wondered,  with  a  sudden  twinge  of  agony,  with 
whom  he  should  watch  the  sunset  another  night.  He 
put  out  his  hand  gropingly.  Helen  was  sitting,  as 
usual,  beside  his  hammock. 

"  Stephen,  dear,"  she  cried  when  he  touched  her, 
"  how  cold  your  hand  is.  Do  you  need  another  rug?  " 

Moncrieff  got  up  rather  noisily.  "  I  think  I'll  go 
and  dress  for  dinner,"  he  said.  "  Can  I  find  my 
room  ?  " 

"  Lucia  will  show  you,"  Helen  answered.  "  She 
is  just  inside  the  door.  Can  you  speak  Spanish? 
She  understands  almost  no  English." 

"  Enough  to  make  myself  understood,"  he  said 
gruffly.  "  I  am  not  used  to  seeing  Stephen  in  the 
role  of  lover  and  feel  out  of  place."  He  went  quickly 
into  the  house. 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  him,"  Helen  whispered.  "  I 
always  feel  that  he  means  more  than  he  says." 

"  Perhaps  he  does.  But  his  heart  is  right.  I  want 
you  to  like  him,  Helen." 

"Will  he  stay  long?" 


STEPHEN  283 

"  I  do  not  know.    Where  is  the  boy?  " 

"  Why,  Stephen,  he  went  to  bed  an  hour  ago.  He 
kissed  you  good-night.  Don't  you  remember? " 
Her  voice  showed  that  she  was  hurt. 

"  No,  dear.  I  have  been  dreaming.  And  I  am 
very  sorry.  I  wanted  to  kiss  him  once  more — wanted 
it  particularly  to-night." 

"  Let  me  go  up  to  his  nursery.  Perhaps  he  is  not 
asleep  and  I  can  bring  him  down." 

"  No,  dear.  Don't  trouble.  Perhaps  you  will  let 
me  kiss  him  to-morrow."  He  tried  to  say  it  lightly, 
but  there  was  a  note  of  pleading  that  she  did  not 
understand.  "  Will  you  go  now  and  dress  for 
dinner?  I  shall  not  dress  to-night,  but  I  shall  come 
in  soon.  Send  Pedro  to  help  me — in  fifteen  minutes, 
perhaps.  I  feel  quite  absurdly  weak." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  come  to  the  table?  "  she 
asked  anxiously,  as  she  stood  up. 

"  If  not  I  can  lie  on  the  sofa  in  the  dining-room," 
he  said.  "  Now  kiss  me,  dear,  please."  She  leaned 
over  him  and  he  took  her  face  between  his  hands. 
'  You  will  never  forget  how  much  I  loved  you,"  he 
murmured.  "  Never?  never?  that  love  is  my  justi- 
fication. This  evening  I  shall  tell  you  many  things, 
but  you  must  not  forget.  You  must  never  forget. 
Will  you  promise?  " 


284  THE   GREEN  VASE 

"I  promise,11  she  said  earnestly,  and  as  she  rose 
he  felt  a  tear  drop  on  his  cheek- 
Stephen  lay  quietly  after  she  had  left  him.  He 
was  not  thinking  acutely,  but  seemed  to  be  floating 
in  an  endless  sea  of  placid,  sorrowful  resignation. 
Pain  and  joy  were  very  distant.  He  heard  the  faint 
night  wind  as  it  whispered  through  the  palms  and 
began  to  long  for  the  absolute  silence  of  the  desert. 
Slowly  he  reached  for  his  cane  and  succeeded  in  pull- 
ing himself  up  from  the  hammock.  He  tottered 
across  the  veranda  and  felt  his  way  down  the  steps. 
He  had  no  purpose  except  to  escape,  for  die  time, 
from  every  one,  to  let  himself  drift  into  the  pro- 
found and  eternal  peace  of  the  desert  where  even 
the  wings  of  the  wind  pass  silently.  He  opened  the 
little  gate  through  which  Harry  had  gone,  long,  long 
ago,  and  took  once  more  the  old  trail  to  the  Mission. 
He  felt  stronger  and  moved  almost  easily.  In  a  few 
minutes,  which  had  seemed  hours,  he  turned  from 
the  path  and  let  himself  sink  to  die  ground.  He  lay 
on  his  back,  gazing  up  at  the  stars.  Again  he  asked 
himself  the  puzzle  of  his  boyhood.  Were  the  stars 
the  eyes  of  angels  or  were  they  the  light  shining 
through  chinks  in  the  walls  of  Heaven.  It  was  a 
puzzle  he  was  too  tired  to  solve.  He  only  knew  they 
were  there,  protecting  him,  and  Helen,  and  her  child. 


STEPHEN  285 

"Oh,  God,"  he  whispered,  "enfold  her  in  Thy 
boundless  mercy  and  hold  her  hand  that  she  may 
never  fail."  Then  as  the  breath  of  die  cold  night 
wind  brushed  his  cheeks,  he  dosed  his  eyes. 

Hours  later,  Father  Ignatius  found  him,  as  he  had 
found  die  boy,  but  this  time  there  was  no  need  to  go 
for  help.  He  peered  silendy  into  Stephen's  face,  that 
shone  like  silver  in  the  moonlight,  and  in  die  face 
he  found  a  peace  that  was  beyond  the  world's  peace. 
He  knelt  and  crossed  the  stiffening  arms  over  the 
quiet  breast.  "  On  the  breath  of  the  wind,"  he  mur- 
mured— "  on  the  wind  that  was  the  fanning  of  an- 
gels' wings,  God  took  his  soul,  and  gave  him  peace." 


BOOK  III 

•       • 

HENRY 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  station  at  Houston,  Texas,  was  filled  with 
its  daily  crowd  of  loafers  waiting  to  see  the  west- 
bound Sunset  Limited.  Negroes,  who  apparently  had 
not  a  care  in  the  world,  were  waiting  to  earn  a  dime 
here  and  there  by  carrying  bags  that  did  not  look 
heavy.  A  few  poor  whites,  derelicts  stranded  for 
a  space  in  this  thriving  young  city,  which  was  too 
active  and  progressive  to  hold  them  long,  rubbed 
shoulders  with  the  blacks,  who  despised  them.  Most 
niggers,  in  the  African  code  of  ethics,  were  born 
shiftless — white  men  became  so.  And  that  is  a  very 
different  matter.  You  cannot  despise  a  man  for  being 
what  God  made  him.  You  must  despise  him  for  fall- 
ing, through  sheer  laziness,  from  his  rightful  estate. 
So,  too,  these  very  white  men,  who  cringed  with 
uncontrollable  physical  aversion  at  the  touch  of  black 
hands,  felt  at  the  same  time  their  own  inferiority. 

All  this  showed  in  their  faces,  and  Henry  Murphy 
saw  it  as  he  looked  from  the  car  window.  He  could 
not  endure  the  weak,  covetous,  impotent  staring  of 
this  human  wreckage,  and  with  a  shudder  of  disgust 
seized  his  hat  and  hurried  from  the  car  for  a  breath 

289 


290  THE   GREEN  VASE 

of  fresh  air.  On  the  platform  he  was  immediately 
surrounded  by  crowds  of  porters,  hotel-keepers,  cab- 
drivers,  and  creatures  who  called  themselves 
"  guides."  But  crying  that  he  wanted  nothing,  that 
he  was  going  straight  on,  he  shouldered  his  way 
through  them,  and  proceeding  to  the  further,  less 
crowded  end  of  the  station,  walked  rapidly  back  and 
forth  until  the  conductor  called  "  All  aboard !  " 

Back  in  the  car  Henry  noticed  with  some  irrita- 
tion that  the  section  opposite,  which  had  been  vacant 
from  New  Orleans,  was  occupied  by  a  man  and  his 
wife,  old  people  apparently,  who  were  arranging  their 
multitudinous  bags  with  much  fuss  on  the  man's  part 
and  precision  on  the  woman's.  He  sighed  as  he 
threw  himself  into  his  seat,  and  turning  his  back  on 
them,  looked  gloomily  through  the  window.  Since 
his  wedding  trip  with  Helen,  years  ago,  he  had  taken 
no  long  railroad  journey.  Then  he  had  been  eager 
to  "  make  friends  "  with  all  the  passengers,  to  "  swap 
stories,"  to  tell  all  about  himself,  his  struggles  and 
ambitions.  Now  he  not  only  made  no  advances,  but 
drew  back  when  others  made  advances  to  him.  He 
had  become  more  reticent  after  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
devoting  himself  during  the  day  to  business,  and  at 
night  to  reading.  He  was  determined  to  be  what 
she  would  have  had  him  were  she  still  alive.  He 


HENRY  291 

tried  now,  as  he  watched  the  last  outposts  of  the 
city  melt  into  the  wide  grazing  lands,  to  imagine 
himself  as  he  had  been.  That  noisy  self-assertion 
of  the  past  seemed  unreal,  vulgar — and  so  it  must 
have  seemed  to  Helen,  he  thought.  He  knew  that  it 
had  sprung  from  an  eager  good-will  to  his  fellow- 
men,  hut  recognised  it  now  as  shallow,  closely  allied 
to  ostentation,  similar  to  charity  that  advertises  itself 
in  the  papers.  But  through  the  years,  as  he  had 
grown  more  reticent,  his  sympathy  had  enlarged  and 
deepened.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  smile  or  say  a 
kind  word  where  it  was  needed,  but  he  had  learned  to 
respect  the  privacy,  even  of  fellow-travellers.  And 
at  the  same  time  he  had  begun  to  cherish  his  own. 
He  could  not  be  rude  to  obtrusive  train  companions, 
because  he  remembered  his  own  astonished  hurt  when 
in  the  past  he  had  been  curtly  repelled,  but  he  held 
back  as  long  as  possible.  He  liked  to  think.  As 
the  endless  plains  unrolled  themselves  he  thought 
sadly  now,  as  he  often  did,  of  Helen.  How  different 
this  trip  would  have  been  with  her  by  his  side.  And 
yet — would  he  have  made  it  if  she  had  lived?  He 
understood  perfectly  that  Stuyvesant  and  Bond  would 
never  have  taken  into  partnership  the  crude,  blatant 
Henry  Murphy  of  five  years  earlier,  and  if  Helen 
had  lived  would  he  have  ever  changed?  He  had  been 


292  THE  GREEN  .VASE 

too  absurdly  fr^jl'y  in  the  fulfilment  of  all  his  desires 
to  dunk  of  change.  Even  her  refinement  had  seemed 
to  him  as  only  an  dement  in  her  charm,  not  as  any- 
thing that  he,  a  man,  might  emulate.  And  so  his 
happiness,  that  had  made  him  selfish,  had  made  her 


Gradually  he  became  conscious  that  the  man  and 
gunman  in  the  opposite  section  were  talking  in  those 
penetratingly  low  tones  always  adopted  by 


enced  travellers  who  have  not  learned  the  art  of 
speaking  softly,  and  at  the  same  tune  distinctly,  in 
the  roar  of  the  train.  He  could  not  help  catching 
words,  and  they  «*•*  •••*•«!  to  apply  to  him.  "  Fm  cer- 
tain,"" he  heard  the  woman  say.  "  Wefl,  wait  tin 
he  turns  around,""  the  man  answered.  "  "Tain't  as 
though  we  hadn't  all  day.""  **  He  might  get  off  at 
the  next  station.""  "*  Guess  that's  maybe  a  thousand 
miles  •iiiflfc^T'  **** 

There  was  something  vaguely  familiar  in  the 
voices,  and  Henry  turned.  "  Wefl,  well,  wen,"*  he 
cried,  jumping  up.  "*  Whoever  would  hare  expected 
to  meet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jennings  in  the  heart  of 
Texas!" 

""And  yon,  Henry,  my  boy,""  Mr.  Jennings  cried 
while  his  wife  was  still  recovering  from  her  surprise 
at  having  n^ngpik^i  his  back.  **  Ton  don't  belong 


HEMRY  293 

here  modi  more  than  us.  Travelling  for  four 
health?" 

"  Don't  he  absurd,  .Abraham."  Mrs.  Jennings  in- 
terrupted. "  Can't  you  sec  by  looking  at  Mr.  Mur- 
phy that  he's  just  the  portrait  of  health?*' 

H  Looks  is  often  only  skin  deep,  my  dear." 

"  But  I  am  weD,m  Henry  said.  "  I  am  going  ID 
Arizona  on  business  and  had  to  stop  in  New  Orleans 
on  the  way — which  accounts  for  my  being  here.  And 
it  if  pleasant  to  see  you  again,  Mrs.  Jennings.  I 
heard  Mr.  Jennings  had  broken  down,  and  then,  be- 
fore I  had  a  chance  to  see  him,  heard  he  had  gone 
South.  1  *^**  much  ashamed. 

**  Ton  hadn't  any  call  to  be  ashamed,'"  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings responded.  w  You  arc  a  busy  man  now  and 
a  member  of  high  society.  Oh,  yes,  we  often  sec  your 
name  in  the  Sunday  paper — and  if  yon  still  hare  a 
good  word  for  youf  old  South  Boston  friends  once 
and  a  while,,  why  then  you're  kinder  than  most  that 
gets  up  in  the  world."" 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  Mrs.  Jennings.  I  am  not 
the  kind  to  forget  old  friends.  And  it's  not  a  matter 
of  conscience,  either.  If  I  like  people  it  is  for  al- 
ways. And  I  was  really  worried  about  Mr.  Jennings. 
A  man  who  works  night  and  day  for  the  public  good 
is  sure  to  break  down  sooner  or  later,  and  in  this 


294  THE   GREEN   VASE 

case  it  is  the  breaking  down  of  a  heroic  fighter.    We 
need  him  soon  again." 

"  Whist,  whist!  "  cried  Mr.  Jennings.  "  Ye  can't 
make  a  pheasant  out  of  an  English  sparrow — not  by 
using  all  the  words  in  the  dictionary,  my  boy.  So 
there's  no  use  trying.  You  wouldn't  condemn  me  to 
a  life  of  idle  luxury,  I  suppose." 

"  By  no  means ;  but  I  am  thankful  that  you  are 
resting  down  here  so  that  you  can  go  back  to  work 
again." 

"  Resting !  "  Mrs.  Jennings  snorted  scornfully. 
"  Much  resting  he's  done.  I  visibly  believe  that  the 
only  time  he's  stayed  quiet  since  we  left  home  has 
been  when  he  got  to  the  city  hall  in  various  places 
and  stopped  to  talk  politics  with  the  janitors  while 
I  did  the  sights." 

Mr.  Jennings'  eyes  twinkled.  "  And  then,  when 
I  came  home  as  chipper  as  a  squirrel,  you  draggled  in 
all  fagged  out.  Don't  you  remember  any  such  times 
as  that,  Amanda?" 

"  Pooh,"  she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  hurt  your  body 
to  get  tired.  It's  your  brain  that  needs  a  rest." 

"  Oh,  well — talking  with  janitors  ain't  such  very 
strenuous  mental  exercise.  But  they  haven't  all  been 
janitors,  by  a  long  shot,  Henry.  These  Southerners 
is  mighty  hospitable — even  if  shiftless.  And  ideas, 


HENRY  295 

too — they  have  some  good  ones.  Now  down  in  Gal- 
veston — this  idea  of  city  government  by  commission 
ain't  at  all  bad — the  way  it  works  out  there,  any- 
how." 

"  Yes,"  his  wife  interrupted.  "  We  traipsed  way 
down  there,  where  there's  nothing  at  all  to  see 
excepting  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  just  to  look  into 
a  new  idea  in  bossing  towns.  It  was  just  stupid 
there." 

"  I  know,  my  love.  It  must  have  been.  Why,  the 
town  was  so  clean  you  didn't  even  have  the  fun  of 
brushing  your  skirts  and  scolding  about  it  when  you 
came  in.  Of  course  I  don't  know  how  it  would  work 
in  Boston,"  he  added,  turning  to  Henry. 

"  Work  in  Boston !  Well,  I'd  like  to  see  any  set 
of  men  that  would  keep  the  streets  in  Boston  clean," 
Mrs.  Jennings  said  scornfully.  "  What  we  need  there 
is  woman's  suffrage.  That  would  clean  things  up  in 
short  order — streets  and  saloons,  too." 

"Has  the  Club  taken  up  that  subject?"  Henry 
asked,  smiling. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Jennings  answered  apologetically.  "  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  it  doesn't  dare.  For  the  honour 
of  my  sex  I'm  ashamed.  It's  the  regular  thing  for 
ladies'  clubs  to  disbar  politics  and  religion.  They 
can't  discuss  'em  like  men  can.  They  just  get  mad." 


296  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  And  yet  you  think  women  ought  to  vote  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Argument  ain't  necessary  to  vote. 
I  never  yet  saw  a  man — to  say  nothing  of  a  lady — 
that  had  his  opinion  changed  by  argument.  It's  only 
use  is  to  make  folks  more  set  on  what  they  already 
thought." 

"  I  remember  that  Helen  often  used  to  speak  of 
that — the  fact  that  women,  when  they  got  together, 
usually  talked  about  things  that  were  hardly  worth 
discussing.  I  believe  that  in  England  it  is  not  the 
case.  English  women  are  as  interested  in  questions  of 
the  day  as  the  men  are." 

"  She  never  was  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Mrs.  Jennings 
responded.  "  I  might  have  learned  a  whole  lot  from 
her,  Mr.  Murphy,  if  I  hadn't  been  so  chuck  full  of 
mean  suspicions.  Oh,  I  just  hounded  that  poor  inno- 
cent girl,  and  if  she'd  killed  herself  instead  of  being 
took  by  God's  mercy  I'd  have  just  never  had  another 
minute's  peaceful  sleep — not  a  minute's." 

"  No,  none  of  us  understood  her,"  Henry  said 
quietly.  "  She  was  too  good  for  us — I  can  say  it  now, 
without  offence,  can't  I?  It  seems  to  me  that  she 
was  one  of  those  who  were  born  to  be  of  real  influ- 
ence. And  when  she  could  not  be,  alive,  she  died, 
and  then  her  goodness  had  its  effect.  She  certainly 
has  had  power  enough  over  me,  at  least." 


HENRY  297 

Mrs.  Jennings  opened  her  bag  to  find  her  hand- 
kerchief. "  You  do  say  things  beautifully,  Mr.  Mur- 
phy," she  sniffled.  "Just  like  our  minister  at  a 
funeral.  And  if  it  was  anybody  else  than  Helen  I'd 
be  surprised  you  hadn't  married  again." 

"  That's  what  he  ought  to  do,"  her  husband  broke 
in.  "  He's  too  young  to  spend  his  life  thinking  about 
influences.  I  never  heard  of  a  family  raised  on  influ- 
ences, what  ?  And  every  young  fellow  ought  to  fulfil 
his  mission  in  life  by  getting  married." 

"  Why,  Abe  Jennings,  how  you  talk !  "  she  gasped. 
*'  And  after  he's  said  things  so  beautifully." 

"  That's  all  right,"  Henry  said.  "  Mr.  Jennings 
is  a  practical  man.  He  might  easily  think  that  I 
spend  my  time  dreaming  over  what  can't  be  helped. 
And  I  have  no  more  use  than  he  has  for  dreamers 
who  do  nothing  in  this  world.  I  am  not  that 
kind.  It  was  just  the  meeting  with  old  friends — 
friends  who  knew  her  and  who  pulled  me  through 
those  days  when  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  live 
for — yes,  you  helped  me  then  more  than  any  one  else 
— that  made  me  talk.  It's  not  like  me  to  do  it.  And 
as  to  marrying  again — well,  if  I  can  find  another 
woman  as  fine  as  Helen,  as  really  fine,  then  I'll  marry 
her — if  she'll  have  me." 

"  Huh !  "  Mr.  Jennings  sputtered.    "  A  pretty  life 


298  THE    GREEN   VASE 

she'll  lead — being  always  compared,  weighed  in  the 
balance,  as  my  dear  wife  would  say." 
'     Henry  laughed.     "  Perhaps  it  would  be  decent  in 
me  to  warn  her,  then,"  he  said. 

"  I  guess,"  Mrs.  Jennings  put  in,  "  that  the  kind 
of  society  lady  you'd  be  apt  to  marry  now  would  be 
such  as  could  take  care  of  herself  without  any  warn- 
ing. And  I  guess,  too,  that  you  know  pretty  well 
yourself  who  she's  to  be,  don't  you?  I  don't  take 
a  glance  at  the  Sunday  paper  without  remembering 
old  friends,  and  it  has  appeared  to  me  that  about 
every  time  Miss  Katherine  Bland  is  mentioned  Mr. 
Henry  Murphy  comes  in  pretty  close  to  her." 

Henry  was  startled  and  irritated.  He  knew  that 
Stuyvesant  and  his  friends  talked  of  his  intimacy  with 
Katherine,  but  that  the  rumour  had  penetrated  as  far 
as  South  Boston  was  amazing.  He  had  seen  her 
often  during  the  last  year — but  he  did  not  love  her. 
She  was  his  guide  among  the  devious  windings  of 
Boston  society,  had  pointed  out  to  him  the  intense 
in-breeding  among  the  old  families  which  made  it 
clear  that  caustic  comment  was  always  dangerous — 
since  the  listener  was  sure  to  be  some  kind  of  a  cousin. 
She  had  made  him  feel  at  home  before  her  fire  and 
had  given  him  the  feminine  companionship  that  he 
needed  to  complete  his  education.  She  had  come  tq 


HENRY  299 

be  a  very  real  part  of  his  life — so  real  that  the  idea 
of  marriage,  when  it  occurred  to  him,  was  something 
that  could  be  contemplated  without  a  shudder.  And 
yet  he  did  not  love  her.  He  had  only  to  think  of 
Helen  to  realise  that.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
who  might  marry  honourably,  twice,  but  who  could 
never  love  more  than  once.  And  because  to  Mrs. 
Jennings  marriage  meant,  at  its  beginning,  a  kind 
of  sentimental  crisis,  he  could  not  hear  it  suggested 
without  dismay. 

"  Miss  Bland  has  been  a  very  good  friend,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  more  kind,  perhaps,  than  even  I 
realise;  but  I  have  never  made  love  to  her,  Mrs. 
Jennings,  and  I  never  expect  to.  Are  you  going  far 
West?" 

She  understood,  for  once,  that  she  had  said  too 
much,  and  dropped  the  subject. 

"  To  Los  Angeles,  perhaps  San  Francisco.  We're 
going  up  through  Phenix  to  stop  at  the  Grand  Canon 
where,  thank  my  stars,  there  ain't  any  municipal  gov- 
ernment nor  even  any  city  hall.  And  then  we're 
coming  back  by  this  same  route,  so's  to  get  a  longer 
trip — no  more  expensive  than  a  short  one,  excepting 
food,  which  we  have  to  have  anyhow — and  so  to 
Florida,  where  we're  going  to  rest,  and  bathe  in  the 
sea." 


300  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  It's  more  famous,  of  course,  but  I  don't  calculate 
to  find  the  ocean  in  Floridy  any  better  run  than  it 
is  in  Boston,"  Mr.  Jennings  remarked.  "  Still,  I 
admit  it'll  be  a  pleasure  not  to  have  to  wait  till  sum- 
mer for  a  swim.  How  fur  are  you  travelling?  " 

"  Only  to  Tucson,  Arizona.  It's  pronounced 
Tooson  and  spelled  Tucson." 

"  Spanish  foolishness,  I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Jennings 
commented.  "  I  can't  see  why  we  don't  call  Amer- 
ican towns  by  good  old  American  names.  It  isn't 
as  though  we  hadn't  any.  Now,  why  shouldn't  they 
christen  it  over  again  Whittier — he's  a  lovely  poet 
that  we  discussed  in  the  Club — or  Dewey,  after  Ma- 
nila, though  I  don't  think  he  was  so  much,  after 
all." 

"  Perhaps  that's  what  Murphy's  going  out  for, 
Amanda,  to  negotiate  a  new  name  for  the  place." 
Mr.  Jennings  grinned. 

"  Are  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  Henry  answered.  "  I  might  as  well  tell 
you.  Stuyvesant  and  Bond  are  going  to  take  me 
into  partnership,  and  I'm  going  to  Tucson  with  the 
papers  for  Mr.  Bond  to  sign.  He  lives  there,  you 
know,  because  he  has  consumption." 

'*  Well,  well,  Henry,  my  boy,  that  is  good  news. 
One  of  the  best  houses,  and  you  a  partner  at  thirty- 


HENRY  301 

five.     I  guess  you  have  been  doing  something  besides 
dream." 

"  What's  their  business,"  Mrs.  Jennings  asked, 
"wholesale  or  retail?  I  suppose,  anyhow,  you'll  be 
in  the  office,  being  a  partner,  and  won't  have  to  sell 
things." 

"  Yes.  I'll  be  in  the  office,  Mrs.  Jennings,"  Henry 
laughed.  "  It's  a  stock  and  bond  business." 

"  Speculating?  "  she  cried. 

"  Nonsense,  Amanda.  It's  one  of  the  most  re- 
spectable houses  in  Boston — has  all  the  old  families 
on  its  books." 

"  I  don't  know  as  that  signifies  much.  And  I  only 
hope,  Henry  Murphy,  that  you  won't  lose  what  little 
you've  saved  by  any  foolishness.  Is  this  Mr.  Bond 
that  you're  going  to  see  the  one  that — that  one  that 
you  used  to  know?" 

"  Yes — the  same  one.  He's  been  sick  ever  since, 
poor  fellow,  and  I  don't  believe  has  very  long  to 
live." 

"  Is  he  married?  " 

"  Yes,  a  wife  and  one  child — a  boy,  I  think." 

"  Was  she  a  Boston  girl?  " 

"  I  think  not.  He  married  her  in  New  York.  I 
have  never  seen  her.  He  married  her  soon  after 
Helen  was  killed." 


302  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Mrs.  Jennings  looked  at  him,  then  turned  to  the 
window.  "  I  do  wish  I  could  see  a  hill,"  she  said. 
"  It's  only  right  to  look  at  the  scenery  when  you're 
travelling,  but  it's  pretty  tiresome  always  to  see  the 
same  thing.  There  seems  to  be  cows  and  horses, 
even,  always  feeding  in  the  same  places.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  telegraph  poles  I'd  think  we  were  standing 
still.  It's  like  some  play  where  the  writer  didn't 
have  ideas  enough  to  change  the  scenery  between  the 
acts.  Not  as  I  entirely  approve  of  plays,  anyhow; 
but  if  you  do  go  to  the  theatre  you  want  to  see  a 
good  one." 

"  And  yet  there  is  something  inspiring  in  the  very 
endlessness  of  it  all,  I  think,"  Henry  said.  "  Don't 
you  want  to  come  and  have  a  smoke,  Mr.  Jen- 
nings?" 

"  Yes,  do,"  his  wife  urged.  "  Only  don't  let  him 
talk  politics,  Mr.  Murphy." 

"  At  least  I  shall  not  dispute  with  him.  We  agree 
on  the  essential  points." 

Monotonously,  interminably,  the  great  plains  of 
Texas  rolled  back  over  the  edge  of  the  world,  only 
to  be  replaced  by  others  like  them.  The  train  might 
almost  have  been  standing  still,  as  Mrs.  Jennings  had 
said,  so  like  was  the  outlook  from  the  car  windows 
as  the  hours  slipped  away.  Mrs.  Jennings  became 


HENRY  303 

gradually  almost  frantic  in  her  denunciation  of  this 
"  stupid  country,"  where  she  was  sure  that  in  time 
"  even  the  cows  and  the  pigs  and  the  darkies  would 
flatten  out  and  turn  green  like  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape." Henry  unwillingly  spent  most  of  his  time 
in  the  smoking  car,  because  her  complaining  jarred. 
He  felt  a  strange  sympathy  with  the  boundless  land 
that  stretched  away  and  away  like  his  own  aspira- 
tions over  the  horizon  that  was  itself  not  a  limit,  but 
a  suggestion  of  endless  space  beyond.  The  sun  went 
down.  It  seemed  to  Henry  as  though  they  were 
rushing  onward  toward  some  unimagined  wonder. 
He  could  not  keep  his  mind  from  Helen.  How  she 
would  have  loved  it — this  freedom,  this  immensity  of 
sky  and  plain,  this  titanic  painted  sky;  she  who  had 
pined  for  air  and  life,  between  four  dull  red  walls, 
made  purple  by  the  light;  she,  who  had  leaned  in 
ecstasy  from  her  little  window  to  watch  the  pale, 
smoke-soiled  colours  of  the  sunset  brightness  on  the 
Dorchester  hills  because  she  loved  the  colour.  He 
had  not  thought  of  her  with  such  passionate  longing 
for  years.  He  was  almost  afraid. 

In  the  evening  at  San  Antonio  he  sat  in  his  section 
talking  somewhat  listlessly  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings. A  boy  dashed  through  the  car  calling,  "  Tele- 
gram for  Mr.  Henry  Murphy."  He  stopped  him 


304  THE   GREEN   VASE 

and    took    the    paper.     "  It's    annoying,"    he    said. 
"  One  cannot  escape  business,  even  here." 

"  Business !  My  gracious !  "  Mrs.  Jennings  said. 
"  I'm  glad  you  haven't  a  wife.  I'd  think  it  was  from 
her  saying  she  was  dead,  or  at  least  dying.  Tele- 
grams are  dreadful  things,  I  think.  They  make  a 
body  as  nervous  as  a  cat." 

Henry  smiled  as  he  tore  open  the  envelope.  "  I 
haven't  a  relative  in  the  world,  except  an  old  uncle 
in  Chicago."  Then,  as  he  read  the  telegram,  his 
face  grew  very  grave. 

"For  mercy  sakes,  what  is  it?"  she  asked 
sharply.  "  I  do  hope  it  ain't  as  bad  as  your  face 
looks." 

"  It  is  rather  bad,"  he  answered.  "  It's  from 
Stuyvesant,  in  Boston.  He  says  that  Bond  died  two 
or  three  days  ago." 

"  Gee,  but  that's  hard  on  you,  my  boy,"  Mr.  Jen- 
nings said.  "  All  this  way  for  nothing.  Are  you 
going  on?  " 

'  Yes,  Stuyvesant  says  I  ought  to.  The  widow 
may  need  help  and  some  one  from  his  own  office 
should  be  there  to  look  out  for  things." 

"  Will  you  get  there  for  the  funeral?  "  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings asked.  "  That's,  always  so  consoling." 

"  Hardly,    I    should    think,"    Henry    answered. 


HENRY  305 

"  They  probably  don't  know  I'm  coming — and  they 
wouldn't  wait,  anyway." 

"When  do  we  get  to  Tucson?"  Mrs.  Jennings 
asked  after  a  time. 

"  Not  until  day  after  to-morrow.  In  the  early 
morning,  I  think.  To-morrow  we  shall  still  be  in 
Texas." 

"  So  we'll  have  you  with  us  a  day  more.  That's 
good  news.  You  keep  Abe  cheerful.  Is  the  widow 
young?  It  may  come  out  right  in  the  end,  you 
know." 

Henry  looked  at  her  sharply.  "  I  know  nothing 
about  her,"  he  said,  rather  gruffly.  "  I  never  saw 
her.  Isn't  it  about  time  to  go  to  bed?  I  think  I'll 
have  a  smoke  while  the  porter  makes  up  the  sec- 
tions." 


CHAPTER   XX 

HENRY  thought  he  must  be  almost  the  only  per- 
son awake  in  Arizona  when  he  left  the  train  at  Tuc- 
son. The  conductor  came  up,  somewhat  sleepily,  to 
say,  "  Good-bye  to  you,  sir.  You'll  find  it  a  pretty 
dead  place,  sir." 

"  Not  with  business  to  keep  me  awake,"  Henry 
answered.  "  Good  luck." 

He  felt  a  little  lonesome  as  he  drove  up  the  de- 
serted streets  to  the  Santa  Anna.  He  would  have 
a  bath,  breakfast,  read  the  paper — if  there  was  one 
— and  then  see  the  town.  It  would  not  be  decent 
to  arrive  at  the  Bond  house  before  ten  o'clock.  He 
might  be  able  to  get  away  the  next  morning,  or  at 
the  latest  after  forty-eight  hours.  There  could 
hardly  be  very  much  business  beyond  seeing  Bond's 
lawyer. 

The  time  passed  slowly,  but  he  was  at  last  in  his 
carriage  and  driving  away  from  the  town.  '  You 
knew  Mr.  Bond  was  dead,  I  reckon,"  the  driver  said. 

"Yes,"  Henry  answered;  "I  had  a  telegram  at 
San  Antonio." 

"  He  was  a  good  man,"  the  driver  went  on.  "  In 
306 


HENRY  307 

a  little  place  like  this  we  know  all  the  folks  that's 
here  any  time,  and  he'd  been  here  going  on  five  years 
— him  and  his  wife  and  the  kid,  that  was  born  here. 
He  had  a  grand  funeral.  Folks  even  come  down 
from  up  Phenix  way — old  college  mates,  I  heard 
tell.  They  buried  him  out  in  the  desert — near  where 
he  died." 

"  He  died  in  the  desert?  " 

'  Yes.  All  alone — at  night.  Wandered  off  some- 
how. Must  'a'  been  a  shock  to  his  wife,  but  she's 
not  the  kind  to  take  on.  Say,  do  you  know  Mrs. 
Bond?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  you've  got  something  to  live  for. 
She  certain  is  a  wonder.  Mr.  Bond  was  a  fine  feller, 
but  he  wasn't  in  the  same  class  with  his  wife.  She's 
pretty  and  she's  good.  I  don't  reckon  there's  another 
girl  in  the  territory  can  hold  a  candle  to  her  on  either 
count.  If  you're  looking  at  her  you  just  think  about 
how  pretty  she  is,  an'  if  you're  thinking  about  her 
you  always  remember  how  good  she  is." 

Henry  laughed.  "  She  must  be  a  remarkable 
woman  to  make  people  so  enthusiastic." 

"Well,  I  guess!  I  ain't  the  only  one,  by  a  long 
shot,  that  thinks  so.  I  just  naturally  was  took  with 
her  because  we  both  came  from  the  North,  and  she's 


3o8  THE   GREEN   VASE 

been  in  my  home  town  in  Vermont;  but  even  the 
Mexicans  are  crazy  about  her.  You'll  be  just  like 
the  rest,  mister,  when  you  see  her.  Why  she  ever 
took  Bond  I  don't  see,  when  she  could  'a'  had  her 
pick — and  that's  not  saying  nothing  against  him." 

"  Whip  up  your  horse,"  Henry  said.  "  I  am  eager 
to  see  her." 

The  driver  chuckled  as  he  prodded  his  frowsy 
steed.  "  There's  the  Bond  layout — over  on  yonder 
hill." 

Henry  looked  at  it  curiously,  the  long,  low,  white 
house  with  its  red-tiled  roof,  the  garden,  lying  like 
a  flower  in  the  brown  bosom  of  the  desert.  He  could 
not  imagine  Stephen  there.  He  belonged  on  Beacon 
Hill,  where,  through  the  windows  of  his  house,  one 
saw  the  ancient  elms  of  the  Common,  looked  on  an 
almost  rural  picture,  and  yet  heard  from  all  sides 
the  rumble  of  a  great  city.  He  had  not  been,  Henry 
thought,  a  man  who  could  live  contentedly  in  the 
desert  away  from  his  fellows.  And  yet  Stuyvesant 
had  told  him  that  Bond  seemed  happier  here  than 
he  had  ever  been  in  Boston,  more  contented  with  his 
life,  even  sick  and  broken  as  he  was.  Henry  had 
found  it  hard  to  understand  then.  He  found 
it  still  harder  to  understand  now,  when  the 
bleak  solitude  of  the  desert  was  before  him.  Such 


HENRY  309 

solitude  would  only  be  tolerable  with  the  best  of 
companions.  Perhaps  she,  this  wife  who  was  forcing 
herself  into  the  foreground  of  his  consciousness — 
perhaps  she  had  been  compensation  for  all  the  ameni- 
ties of  civilised  life. 

The  carriage  turned  in  at  the  gate,  passed  between 
the  palms,  and  stopped.  As  Henry  stepped  out  a 
man  on  the  piazza  came  forward,  looked  at  him, 
and  threw  up  his  hands  in  amazement. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that's  holy,"  Moncrieff  cried, 
"  how  did  you  get  here  so  soon?  " 

"  So  soon?  I  was  on  my  way  here  to  see  Bond 
on  business  when  the  telegram  came.  Stuyvesant  told 
me  to  keep  on,  as  I  might  be  able  to  help  the  widow." 

"  So  you  know  nothing !  Good  heavens !"  Mon- 
crieff looked  nervously  toward  the  door. 

"  What  is  there  to  know?  " 

"  What  isn't  there  !  Lord !  You  don't  even  sus- 
pect?" 

"Nothing!  Look  here,  Moncrieff.  I'm  not  a 
fool.  Tell  me  what's  up  or  let  me  see  Mrs.  Bond. 
Perhaps  she  has  some  sense.  Or  isn't  Bond  dead, 
after  all?" 

"  Oh,  he's  dead,  right  enough — poor  chap.  But 
I  can't  tell  you  what's  up.  I'd  make  the  mess  worse. 
What's  more — I  don't  dare."  And  then,  "  Lucia," 


3io  THE   GREEN   VASE 

he  called,  going  to  the  door,  "  tell  your  mistress 
there's  a  gentleman  here  to  see  her — a  gentleman 
from  Boston.  I'm  off,  Murphy.  The  desert  for 
me."  He  started  for  the  steps,  then  turned  sud- 
denly. "  Don't  make  an  ass  of  yourself.  Remem- 
ber that  she's  good.  Hold  fast  to  that — good,  good. 
And  faithful,  too.  Don't  forget  that,  either."  He 
was  off  at  top  speed  toward  the  little  gate  through 
which  the  boy  had  strayed  and  through  which,  so  re- 
cently, Stephen  had  stumbled  to  the  blessed  death 
that  waited  for  him. 

Henry  paced  angrily  back  and  forth  on  the 
veranda.  He  was  thoroughly  disgusted  with  the 
turn  events  had  taken;  with  this  mystery  that 
seemed  so  unnecessary;  with  Moncrieff,  in  the  first 
place  for  being  there  at  all,  in  the  second  for  running 
away.  At  the  end  of  the  veranda  he  stopped  to  look 
down  into  the  garden.  There  were  beds  of  blazing 
red  gladioli — "  strange,  at  this  time  of  year,"  he  said 
to  himself.  And  at  the  end  of  the  path,  by  the  edge 
of  the  fountain,  a  little  boy  sat  on  the  ground,  ar- 
ranging pebbles  in  squares  and  circles.  Henry  felt 
a  catch  in  his  throat.  "  To  leave  the  boy — not  to 
be  able  to  see  him  grow — that  must  have  been 
bitterly  hard."  He  took  a  long  breath  and  turned 
away.  As  he  turned  Helen  came  through  the  door. 


HENRY  311 

"You  are  Mr.  Murphy,  I  suppose?"  she  said 
quietly. 

Henry  stood  motionless,  only  reaching  out  his 
hands  to  seize  the  back  of  a  chair.  He  simply  looked 
at  her.  She  meant  nothing  to  him — at  least  he 
thought  not.  Yet  she  looked  like — but  no — Helen 
had  no  white  scar  across  her  forehead.  He  closed 
his  eyes,  shaking  his  head  to  clear  his  vision.  He 
remembered  what  Moncrieff  had  said.  "  She  is 
good."  The  driver  had  said  the  same  thing.  He 
wondered  whether  they  all  knew,  all  the  world  except 
himself.  Knew  what?  Had  the  desert  driven  him 
crazy? 

And  then  she  spoke  again,  hurriedly,  in  a  fright- 
ened voice:  "What  is  it,  Mr.  Murphy?  Are  you 
sick?" 

He  looked  at  her  once  more.  "  No — no — I'm  not 
sick."  He  laughed  harshly.  "  I'm  just  a  fool." 

He  watched  her  closely,  her  motion  while  she 
walked,  as  though  she  were  frightened,  to  a  chair. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  asked  tremblingly. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  still  staring  at  her  brutally. 
"Who  are  you?" 

Helen  started  and  passed  her  hand  wearily  across 
her  eyes.  "  Oh — the  shadows.  Why  do  they  come 
back  now?  "  she  murmured,  so  low  that  he  hardly 


3i2  THE    GREEN   VASE 

caught  the  words.  Then  she  leaned  forward,  her 
elbow  resting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her  chin  in 
her  hand,  and  gazed  out  across  the  desert  that  wa- 
vered, yellow  in  the  sunlight.  She  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  him. 

Still  Henry  watched  her,  the  lines  of  his  face, 
growing  harder,  the  light  in  his  eyes  more  bitter. 
Gradually,  very  gradually,  he  was  realising  the  truth, 
and  as  his  mind  accepted  that  truth  all  the  sacred- 
ness  of  life,  all  the  sweet  memories  that  had  been 
transmuted  through  the  years  into  aspiration,  crum- 
bled away.  He  had  worshipped  a  star,  the  brightest 
in  the  pure  fields  of  heaven — and  the  star — was  it 
only  a  lamp  in  the  house  of  prostitution?  He 
clenched  his  fists — in  sorrow,  and  in  speechless  agony 
of  spirit.  And  yet  all  the  while  in  the  back  of  his 
brain  the  words  kept  throbbing,  "  She  is  good,  good, 
good." 

u  The  veil  was  lifting,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  and  it 
has  fallen  again." 

"Who  are  you?"  he  cried  again,  and  the  agony 
of  the  appeal  rang  in  his  voice. 

Slowly  she  turned  toward  him.  Her  eyes  looked 
far  beyond,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  mystery 
and  beauty  of  the  desert  were  reflected  there,  but  none 
of  its  cruelty. 


HENRY  313 

"  I  am  Helen,"  she  said  dreamily. 

He  drew  back,  throwing  up  his  arms  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair.  Still  she  seemed  unconscious  of  him, 
and  yet  he  felt  that  she  ought  to  stand  up  and  fight 
for  her  good  name,  or  throw  herself  at  his  feet. 
"  But  your  eyes  are  pure!  "  he  said  suddenly,  he  did 
not  know  why. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  "  they  have  seen 
much,  but  they  have  forgotten  more.  In  the  shadows 
they  look  for  reality — and  they  have  never  found  it." 
Very  sadly  she  spoke,  as  though  she  were  alone,  com- 
muning with  herself.  But  her  voice  had  in  it  the 
old,  golden  melody  that  had  haunted  him  through  the 
years,  and  he  could  not  bear  it. 

"You  have  forgotten!"  he  echoed.  "Has  God 
made  nothing  unf orgetable  ?  Is  it  possible  to  forget 
everything — happiness  and  sorrow — and  love?  For 
there  was  love,  Helen.  Only  death  could  end  that — 
if  even  death.  And  I  thought  it  was  death.  My 
heart  died,  too,  it  seemed,  and  then,  in  the  eternal 
life  of  memory  it  beat  again  to  make  me  more  wor- 
thy of  that  memory.  And  now !  "  He  stopped  de- 
spairingly. 

"  Go  on,"  she  whispered. 

He  looked  at  her.  He  saw  fear,  and  wonder,  and 
longing  in  her  eyes,  and  the  longing  he  mistook  for 


3H  THE    GREEN   VASE 

some  inhuman  curiosity  to  see  fully  the  ruin  she  had 
accomplished.  One  part  of  him  could  have  killed  her 
as  she  sat  there,  so  beautiful — oh,  God,  so  beauti- 
ful with  the  light  red-gold  in  her  hair — and  so 
cold.  But  the  better  part  of  him,  the  manlier,  more 
sensitive  part,  was  still  unconvinced,  still  under  the 
sway  of  that  irrepressible  refrain  of  "  good,  good, 
good."  His  years  of  striving  to  make  himself  finer, 
more  as  the  Helen  of  his  dreams  would  have  had 
him,  had  overlaid  his  character  with  a  gentleness  that 
even  this  misery  could  not  break  through.  But  he 
could  not  repress  one  outcry.  "  No,  that  is  all — ex- 
cept a  word.  Then  I  will  go.  Thank  Heaven  that 
Stephen  Bond  is  dead.  I  would  have  had  no  mercy  for 
him.  If  ever  there  was  a  devil  it  was  in  that  man." 
Suddenly  he  remembered  their  conversation  of  years 
ago  when  he  had  said,  "  Her  future?  Yes,  that  you 
can  have.  I  have  her  past."  And  now  there  was  no 
past.  He  shuddered  and  put  his  hands  over  his  face. 

She  was  on  her  feet  at  last.  "  I  wanted  you  to 
go  on,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  I  wanted  you  to  talk 
of  the  long-distant  past.  But  of  the  present  you  shall 
not  speak.  You  shall  not  curse  my  husband." 

"Your  husband?" 

4  Yes — my  husband.  I  never  loved  him,  but  he 
was  good  to  me — and  he  is  dead.  That  last  night — 


HENRY  3i5 

before  he  went  away  into  the  desert,  he  told  me  to 
remember,  whatever  happened,  that  he  had  loved  me 
—too  much,  perhaps.  He  was  going  to  tell  me — all 
about  the  past — that  night— when  he  died.  And  you 
— I  was  silent  at  first  because  I  wanted  to  know — 
however  terrible,  I  wanted  to  know.  And  then  you 
broke  the  thread.  Who  am  I  ?  " 

1  You  said  you  were  Helen."    His  voice  trembled 
still,  but  with  a  strange,  new  hope. 

"  Did  I?  "  she  said,  passing  her  hand  across  her 
eyes  again.  "  Why  did  I  say  that — to  you  ?  Did  you 
know  me,  long  ago,  in  the  days  that  I  have  for- 
gotten?" 

"  Did  I  know  you  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  you  know 
me,  now?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  are  Mr.  Murphy,"  she  answered 
simply.  '  They  told  me  you  were  coming." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  cried,  and  sat  down  in 
a  chair  before  her.  "  What  is  it  that  you  can't  re- 
member? Tell  me — the  truth.  I  can't  stand  much 
more." 

"  I  remember  nothing,"  she  said.  "  There  was  an 
accident;  and  I  was  hurt;  and  I  woke  up  after  months 
in  a  house  in  New  Jersey.  Stephen  was  there,  my 
husband,  and  nurses.  They  were  very  good  to  me. 
He  was  sick,  and  we  came  out  here  for  him." 


316  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  And  before  that  you  remember  nothing? "  he 
whispered. 

"  Oh,  yes,  many  things.  I  remember  my  child- 
hood in  Cambridge,  and  my  mother,  who  was  al- 
ways sick.  And  I  think  we  were  very  poor.  But 
after  that — nothing — until  I  awoke  in  New  Jersey 
and  Stephen  was  beside  me." 

He  leaned  forward,  his  head  between  his  hands. 
"And  he  told  you  nothing?" 

"  Much.  I  thought  once  that  he  had  told  me 
everything.  But  I  was  never  sure.  Lately  I  knew 
he  had  not.  He  was  very  strange.  He  said  he  knew 
I  did  not  love  him  and  that  he  had  ruined  my  life. 
At  first  I  thought  he  meant  because  of  his  sickness, 
poor  boy,  and  our  living  here  away  from  people.  But 
at  last  I  came  to  know  that  he  meant  more  than  that. 
Do  you  know  what  it  was,  Mr.  Murphy?  " 

Henry  did  not  answer.  He  could  not.  "  She  is 
good.  She  is  good."  The  words  kept  ringing  in 
his  ears  and  the  wild  mockery  of  them  began  to  melt 
into  a  kind  of  joyous  hymn.  The  desert  people,  who 
did  not  love  her,  had  seen  it.  Moncrieff,  the  cynical, 
had  been  conquered  by  it.  Only  he,  who  loved  her — 
he  had  never  dreamed  how  much — only  he  had 
missed  it,  and  missing  it,  how  nearly  he  had  brought 
the  world  crashing  down  upon  them  both.  And  he 


HENRY  317 

had  almost  cursed  her!  He  sat  up  suddenly.  He 
was  surprised  to  find  his  face  wet  with  tears,  but  he 
was  not  ashamed.  "  Can  you  ever  forgive  me?"  he 
said  brokenly. 

She  looked  away  from  him,  not  to  see  a  sorrow  she 
could  not  understand,  but  he  knew  that  behind  the 
tears  she  must  see  the  joy  in  his  eyes.  She  only  bowed 
her  head. 

"  I  did  not  understand  it — all  that  you  said,"  she 
answered.  "  I  was  dreaming." 

"  As  you  used  to  do,  long  ago,"  he  cried  invol- 
untarily. 

"  Then  you  knew  me — in  those  dead  days?  That 
was  one  of  the  things  I  most  dreaded  in  meeting  peo- 
ple," she  added,  "  the  having  to  explain.  Somehow 
I  do  not  mind  with  you  because  I  feel  that  you  can 
understand." 

"  Yes — I  knew  you,"  he  answered,  and  stopped. 

"Well?"  she  questioned.  "Won't  you  tell  me 
about  it?" 

He  gazed  at  her,  longingly.  Her  black  dress 
brought  out  the  pallor  of  her  face.  She  looked  tired, 
worn  beyond  her  strength.  He  realised  that  he  must 
not  tell  her  now,  so  suddenly — and  yet  he  must  an- 
swer, and  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He 
got  up  and  walked  again  to  the  end  of  the  veranda. 


3i8  THE   GREEN  VASE 

The  boy  was  still  playing  with  his  pebbles.  The  boy ! 
He  had  forgotten  him.  For  an  instant  the  thought 
stabbed  him.  Must  there  be  anything  between  them 
now?  But  the  feeling  was  gone  as  soon  as  it  had 
come.  Helen  loved  the  child.  Nothing  else  must 
count.  And  then  it  all  came  over  him  with  a  rush — 
never,  never  must  he  let  her  know.  He  must  win 
her  again.  The  second  courtship  would  be  sweeter 
than  the  first,  because  that  had  been  the  crude  man 
reaching  out  to  his  mate.  This  would  be  more.  Her 
death  had  raised  him  to  a  plane  where  he  could  at 
last  appreciate  her  as  he  never  had  before. 

"  Can't  you  answer  me?  "  she  said,  behind  him. 

He  turned  instantly.  "  I  must  have  been  dream- 
ing, too,"  he  said.  "  Something  of  the  past,  and 
more  of  the  present.  Yes,  I  knew  you  in  those  dead 
years,  as  you  call  them.  Knew  you  and  was  very 
fond  of  you.  And  then  you  disappeared  and  I  lost 
you.  Some  time  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it.  And 
now  may  I  see  the  boy?  " 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  and  tried  to  smile;  "the 
best  little  fellow  that  ever  lived."  She  went  quickly 
to  the  railing.  "  Hoo,  hoo!  " — two  musical  notes 
that  made  Henry's  heart  beat  at  the  love  that  was  in 
them.  "  Come,  darling.  I  want  you  to  come  and 
see  Mr.  Murphy." 


HENRY  319 

4  Yes,  mother;  one  moment." 

"  He  always  says  '  one  moment/  "  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  Henry.  "  It's  because  his  nurse,  Miss  Gor- 
don, says  it." 

"Is  he  like  you?" 

"  Not  in  the  last,  though  he  pretends  he  wants  to 
be,  the  little  flatterer." 

"  I  don't  blame  him.    Here  he  is." 

"  Come,  my  child,"  Helen  said,  taking  his  hand; 
"  this  is  Mr.  Murphy,  my  friend  and  your  father's." 
Henry  winced,  but  her  eyes  were  on  the  boy.  "  You 
must  tell  him  all  about  yourself  and  take  care  of  him 
while  I  go  in  to  see  about  luncheon.  He's  a  friendly 
young  man,  Mr.  Murphy.  You  will  stay  to  luncheon, 
of  course." 

"  If  I  may."  He  watched  her  go  into  the  house 
and  then  turned  to  the  boy.  He  would  rather  have 
been  alone  since  he  could  not  be  with  Helen.  "  Do 
you  want  to  sit  on  my  lap  ?  "  he  asked,  sitting  down. 

"  Yes,  please;  I'm  tired.  Did  you  know  my  father 
died?  They  took  him  away,  away  where  the  sun 
goes  at  night." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  about  it.  But  you  have  your 
mother." 

"  Yes,  and  I  love  her  more  than  my  father,  but 
I  want  my  father,  too.  He  told  me  stories."  His 


320  THE   GREEN   VASE 

eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  he  choked  them  back.    "  Can 
you  tell  stories?  " 

"  Well,  I  really  don't  know.  I  never  tried.  I'll 
think  about  it  and  see  whether  I  can  remember  any. 
But  you  haven't  told  me  about  yourself.  Why,  I 
don't  even  know  your  name." 

"Don't  you?  And  I  know  yours — only  I  can't 
remember  it.  Guess  what  mine  is." 

"Stephen,  like  your  father's?" 

"  No.    A  nicer  name— Harry." 

"Harry?  But,  my  boy,  are  you  sure?  Who 
named  you  Harry?  " 

"  It's  a  nice  name,"  he  answered,  pouting,  "  nicer 
than  Stephen.  And  my  beautiful  mother  likes  it 
better  because  she  likes  me  better." 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Almost  six.  I'm  a  big  boy  now.  I  can  take  care 
of  mother.  Why  do  you  shake  like  that?  " 

"Was  I  shaking?  Stand  up  and  let  me  look  at 
you.  Do  you  know  when  your  birthday  is?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  When  I'm  seven  I'm  going  to 
have  a  pony." 

"When  is  that?" 

"  A  year  from  next  February,  on  the  nineteenth." 

Henry  slid  from  the  chair  onto  his  knees  in  front 
of  the  child.  Then  he  caught  him  in  his  arms  and 


HENRY  321 

kissed  him.  "  Oh,  you  wonderful,  blessed  child,"  he 
cried.  "  And  I've  missed  almost  six  years  out  of 
your  precious  life." 

Harry  backed  away  indignantly.  "  Boys  aren't 
good  to  kiss,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Moncrieff  told  me. 
Why — you're  crying,  mister — I  don't  know  your 
name." 

"Am  I?"  Henry  said,  wiping  his  eyes.  "Isn't 
that  silly?  You  won't  tell  your  mother  about  it,  will 
you?" 

The  child  looked  dubiously  at  him.  Then  his  face 
brightened.  "  No,  I  won't  tell.  Miss  Gordon  says 
men  must  not  cry,  and  she  doesn't  tell  my  mother 
sometimes  when  I  forget.  Are  you  very  sorry  about 
something?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  taking  the  boy's  hand  as  he 
got  up.  "  A  little  sorry,  and  very  glad.  Sometimes 
people  cry  because  they're  glad,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Mother  cried  when  they  brought 
me  back  from  the  desert." 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  cry  any  more,"  Henry  said, 
falling  insensibly  into  the  childish  vernacular.  "  I'm 
just  going  to  be  very  glad  all  the  time — and  tell  you 
lots  of  stories — and  perhaps — don't  you  think  your 
beautiful  mother  would  let  me  give  you  a  pony  when 
you  are  six?  " 


322  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"A  real  pony?" 

"  Yes,  a  real  one — but  don't  ask  her  now.  We'll 
have  a  secret." 

The  boy's  eyes  sparkled.  "  I  won't  tell.  Sh  !— 
she's  coming." 

Henry  went  to  meet  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  black  years  of  sorrow  had  been  wiped  away,  that 
the  whole  world  was  radiant. 

"  You  may  stay,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  There  will 
be  enough  to  eat." 

"  It  really  wouldn't  much  matter,"  Henry  said. 
"  Oh,  we  have  been  having  a  wonderful  time,  Harry 
and  I.  He's  my  little  namesake,  you  know." 

"  And  he's  going  to  give 

"  No,  no,  no,"  Henry  interrupted.  "  That's  a  se- 
cret, you  know."  The  boy  crowded  close  against 
his  leg  and  he  laid  one  hand  on  the  curly  head.  He 
was  so  near  Helen  that  he  felt  he  must  touch  her. 
"  He's  not  like  you  in  looks,"  he  said,  "  except  here." 
He  brushed  his  hand  across  her  hair.  "  The  same 
beautiful  gold,  like  a  bit  of  the  sunset,  strayed  into 
the  day." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AN  hour  later  Henry  sat  alone  on  the  veranda, 
gazing  across  the  great,  glowing  desert  wastes.  He 
was  smoking,  as  a  man  must  smoke  to  reestablish  his 
calm  after  the  stress  of  soul-tearing  excitement.  He 
knew  but  little — that  "  she  was  good,"  that  he  had 
found  a  son.  He  was  trying  to  piece  together  the 
bits  of  knowledge  that  he  had.  That  old  story  of 
the  ship  which  had  picked  up  a  man  and  woman 
after  the  explosion,  the  newspaper  report  which  he 
had  substantiated  in  New  York,  but  which  had  ended 
there — the  sailors  could  give  him  no  descriptions — 
all  this  must  be  the  solution  of  Helen's  disappear- 
ance. There  had  been  nothing  in  it  to  suggest 
Stephen.  And  with  the  thought  of  Stephen  came 
a  shudder  of  loathing.  He  could  find  no  excuse  there. 
Stephen  must  have  known  what  he  was  doing  all 
along.  Perhaps  the  papers  that  Helen  was  even  now 
sorting  might  reveal  something.  He  almost  hoped 
not.  After  all,  Stephen  was  dead,  and  the  only  really 
important  thing  was  that  he  had  found  Helen  and 
her  boy — and  his.  He  was  thankful  that  he  had 

323 


324  THE   GREEN  YASE 

known  nothing  of  the  coming  baby  when  she  died. 
He  lay  back  in  his  chair  infinitely  content  as  he 
watched  the  desert  through  the  pale-blue  rings  of 
smoke  from  his  cigar. 

"Hello,  old  man.  Making  yourself  at  home?" 
Moncrieff  said  suddenly,  popping  over  the  railing. 
"  I  walked  all  over  the  desert,  afraid  to  come  back. 
Then  I  reconnoitred  and  at  last  discovered  that  you 
were  alone." 

"Little  thanks  to  you  that  there  was  not  a  dis- 
aster. You  might  have  warned  me,"  Henry  an- 
swered sternly.  "  How  in  the  devil  do  you  happen 
to  be  here,  anyway?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  thanks  and  I  did  expect  that  ques- 
tion. I  ran  out  here  to  cheer  up  poor  old  Steve- 
thought  he'd  probably  endured  the  society  of  women 
and  priests  and  doctors  about  long  enough.  Then 
he  died,  and  I  couldn't  with  decency  run  off  and 
leave  the — the  widow  all  alone." 

"Don't,"  Henry  said  sharply.     "  It  isn't  funny." 

"  You  don't  think  so?  I  wager  you'd  do  your  best 
to  find  humour,  even  the  most  distorted  humour,  if 
you'd  spent  the  week  I  have  in  this  damned  desert. 
When  you  came  it  was  the  last  straw.  I  ran.  I'm 
sorry,  but  I  knew  you'd  see  it  right  somehow,  and 
that  means  I  knew  you  to  be  a  man  in  a  thousand. 


HENRY  325 

Steve  never  could  have  told  her  decently.  How'd  she 
take  it?" 

"  I  haven't  told  her." 

"  You  don't  mean  to " 

"  No,"  Henry  interrupted.  "  I  don't  mean  to  do 
any  of  the  hundred  brutal  or  idiotic  things  you  may 
think  me  capable  of."  A  plan  was  shaping  itself 
in  his  mind  as  he  talked.  "  She  is  my  wife — as  much 
as  she  ever  was  and  as  dear  as  she  ever  was.  But 
she  has  been  through  a  lot  lately.  She  can't  bear 
much  more,  and  she's  altogether  too  fine  to  be  pleased 
to  have  a  stranger  announce  himself  suddenly  as  her 
husband.  At  first  I  thought  she  must  never  know 
the  past  on  the  child's  account " 

«  But " 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  himself,  God  bless  him.  That 
alters  the  situation.  Some  time  she  must  know,  but 
not  now — not  when  she's  grieving  for  a  man — she 
thought  was  her  husband.  She  has  all  the  years  of 
her  life  to  hate  him.  Let  her  have  peace  now." 

"  But  she  won't  hate  him,"  Moncrieff  said  ear- 
nestly. "  She  is  too  fine  for  that,  too — and  then — 
well,  she's  a  woman,  and  women  like  incense." 

"  She  will  hate  him.  The  adoration  of  a  brute  is 
no  flattery." 

"  Wait,  I'm  serious  now.    The  Lord  knows  I Vc 


326  THE    GREEN   VASE 

been  serious  enough  during  the  last  week  to  last  a 
lifetime.  Listen — you've  got  to  hear  sooner  or  later. 
It  won't  make  you  love  him,  but — well,  you're  a  fair 
man.  I  found  Stephen  at  the  old  Mission  church. 
He  was  dying,  and  he  knew  it.  What  was  life  for 
him?  He  told  me  his  story,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  it  but  tragedy.  Even  his  love,  at  the  very  first,  was 
tragedy,  because  it  came  too  late.  He  was  going 
away — for  always.  Perhaps  he  went  to  South  Bos- 
ton to  tell  her  so.  He  was  in  the  car  with  her  when 
the  bridge  was  wrecked.  In  the  water  he  thought 
she  was  dead,  and  when  they  took  him  and  her  on 
the  ship  and  he  found  she  was  alive,  the  restraint 
of  his  whole  life  and  of  his  whole  inheritance  gave 
way.  Nothing  else  counted  but  that  one  woman — 
honour,  position — all  were  nothing.  During  the 
months  that  she  was  unconscious  he  found  reasons 
for  believing  he  was  right.  He  even  talked  with 
you,  I  think.  But  he  expected  her  to  die — or  to  wake 
up  an  idiot.  In  that  case  he  was  going  to  give  up  his 
life  to  her — and  the  queer  part  is  that  he  would  have 
done  it.  She  was  not  an  idiot,  but  she  did  not  re- 
member. Fate  played  into  his  hands.  The  thought 
of  the  child  nearly  killed  him — but  still  he  could  not 
give  her  up.  It  was  he  who  named  the  boy  Harry. 
She  never  knew  why.  And  then,  out  here,  his  whole 


HENRY  327 

life  was  punishment.  She  was  good  to  him,  but  she 
did  not  love  him — and  he  knew  it.  Imagine  that  if 
you  can — the  agony  of  it.  So  at  last  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  tell  her — everything — the  very  day  I  came. 
But  he  died  before  he  had  a  chance." 

Henry  seemed  hardly  to  be  listening.  "  He  was 
no  more  punished  than  he  deserved,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  don't  say  he  was,  but  his  repentance  was  com- 
plete. He  thought  she  would  leave  him  and  he  was 
not  afraid  to  die  alone.  He  found  peace  at  last." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  He  went  into  the  desert,  alone,  at  night — to  find 
words,  I  suppose,  to  tell  her.  And  there  he  died. 
Father  Ignatius  discovered  him  and  took  me  to  him. 
Such  peace  after  the  torture  of  the  day !  My  God, 
Murphy,  if  you  could  have  seen  him  as  I  saw  him 
there,  lying  asleep  in  the  moonlight.  His  face  posi- 
tively shone.  It  was  really  as  if  an  angel  had  come 
to  wash  away  his  sin "  Moncrieff's  voice  broke. 

Henry  was  silent. 

"  All  this  sounds  melodramatic,"  Moncrieff  went 
on.  Then  he  laughed  suddenly.  "  Now  do  you 
wonder  that  I  try  to  find  humour  in  everything?  It's 
the  only  way  I  can  forget  his  face — when  I'm  laugh- 
ing. He  left  a  letter  for  you.  Father  Ignatius  had 
it  that  night." 


328  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"Who  is  Father  Ignatius?" 

"  The  priest  at  San  Xavier.  He  must  have  mailed 
the  letter  before  this." 

"  It  can  wait  until  I  get  back  to  Boston.  I'm  glad 
you  told  me  about  him,  Moncrieff — although  what 
you  said  does  not  make  me  forgive.  It  only  makes 
me  glad  that  he  suffered." 

"  Remember  that  what  he  did  was  to  love  too 
much." 

"  Perhaps.  But  there's  nothing  fine  in  a  love  that's 
selfish  like  his.  It  isn't  love,  really.  It's  a  kind  of 
wrecking  passion." 

"  Something  I  could  never  feel,  nor  you  either, 
Murphy." 

"You  feel  it?  No — I  don't  believe  you  go 
deep  enough.  Nor  could  I — for  another  man's 
wife." 

"  That's  what  takes  the  courage." 

Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  There  is  more 
courage  in  restraint,  Moncrieff " 

"  And  more  things  in  this  world  than  you  dream 
of,  Horatio.  Here  comes  the  lady." 

"  You  won't  tell  her." 

"  Not  I.  With  all  my  motley,  I'm  true  at  heart. 
A  little  chaffing,  an  inborn  love  of  skating  on  thin 
ice,  a  little  innuendo  which  no  one  can  understand — 


HENRY  329 

that's  my  manner.    And  my  morals — get  all  the  pleas- 
ure I  can  from  life  without  being  a  bounder." 

'  What  was  that  you  were  saying?  "  Helen  asked. 
"  Nonsense,  I  suppose,  as  usual." 

"  No,  dear  lady,  just  my  theory  of  life — and  I  be- 
lieve I  was  saying — was  I  not,  Murphy? — that  the 
call  of  the  further  West  was  on  me  and  that  I  must 
pack  myself  off." 

"And  leave  us  so  soon,  Mr.  Moncrieff?  I  know 
you  came  for  Stephen,  and — I  am  sure  he  would  be 
happier  if  he  could  know  that  you  stayed  a  little  for 
Harry  and  me." 

'  There's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  a  lady — ex- 
cept give  up  smoking — but  I'm  not  leaving  you  alone. 
Murphy  is  a  capable  person." 

"  But  the  call  of  the  East  is  on  me,"  Henry  said, 
looking  at  Helen.  "  And  that  is  the  imperative  call 
of  business." 

"  I  shall  not  try  to  keep  you,  Mr.  Murphy.  I 
know  that  if  you  could,  you  would  stay — for  the  sake 
of  old  times." 

"  Nor  can  you  keep  me,"  said  Moncrieff,  "  even 
if  you  want  to.  I'm  really  off  for  the  West,  madame. 
The  Arizona  air  is  too  keen,  too  exciting  for  my  tem- 
perament. May  I  telephone  for  reservations?  " 

"  He's  a  curious  fellow,"  Henry  said,  when  Mon- 


330  THE   GREEN   VASE 

crieff  had  gone  in.  "  I  don't  like  him,  but  oddly 
enough  I  trust  him." 

"  He  has  been  really  good  to  me,"  Helen  re- 
sponded, "  thoughtful  and  efficient.  He  did  every- 
thing after  Stephen  died — he  and  Father  Ignatius. 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  them." 

"  Poor  child,"  Henry  said.  "  It  must  all  have  been 
very  hard  for  you." 

"  It  was  hard,"  she  answered,  "  because  it  was  so 
sudden.  And  I  am  afraid  my  disappointment  made 
it  harder.  How  could  I  think  of  myself  when  he 
had  always  been  so  good  to  me — always,  always." 
Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,  if  you  want  to.  Sometimes  talking 
makes  things  easier."  He  was  ready  to  listen  and 
strained  every  nerve  not  to  show  his  own  emotion,  his 
instinctive  shrinking  when  she  spoke  of  Stephen. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  talk  to  you.  It  is  the 
knowledge,  perhaps,  that  you  were  my  friend  long 
ago.  You  were  ?  " 

"Yes— oh,  yes!     Goon." 

"  I  had  known  for  months  that  Stephen  could  not 
live  long.  I  could  not  want  life  for  him.  He  suf- 
fered so — not  from  pain,  but  from  some  past  sorrow, 
something  that  made  him  think  he  had  been  unfair 
to  me.  At  first  it  was  not  so  bad,  I  caught  a  look 


HENRY  33i 

in  his  eyes  sometimes  that  frightened  me.  But  lately 
—oh,  it  has  been  terrible.  He  wanted  to  speak  and 
could  not.  He  wanted  to  give  his  life  to  me,  he  said, 
to  do  with  as  I  would.  That  was  after  I  had  brought 
him  back  from  the  brink  when  he  nearly  lost  his  life 
for  Harry." 

"  He  did  that?  Risked  his  life  for  Harry?  " 
'  Yes.  But  still  he  could  not  speak.  He  was  go- 
ing to,  that  night  that  he  died.  He  promised,  and 
I  never  knew  Stephen  to  break  a  promise.  Then  he 
went  out  into  the  desert — and  that  was  all."  There 
was  a  sob  in  her  voice.  "  I  wanted  so  much  to  know." 

"  And  you  had  a  right  to  know." 

"  But  not  a  right  to  think  of  my  own  disappoint- 
ment at  such  a  time.  The  remembrance  of  his  good- 
ness should  have  been  all  that  remained.  My  curi- 
osity could  have  waited.  No — what  was  bitter  was 
my  forgetting.  If  I  could  forget  then,  perhaps  I 
may  have  forgotten  when  he  was  alive.  His  suffer- 
ing, his  belief  that  I  did  not  love  him.  Did  he  think 
that  because  I  was  unkind?  Was  it  my  neglect  that 
made  him  suffer?  I  put  Harry  first — always — but  I 
thought  Stephen  did  not  see.  And  the  little  boy — I 
loved  him  so  much,  and  he  seemed  so  alone." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes.       I     don't    know    why.      Perhaps " — she 


332  THE    GREEN   VASE 

smiled — "  perhaps  because  he  seemed  so  terribly  little 
in  the  desert.  Stephen  loved  him,  but  not  as  I  did. 
And  he  seemed  to  have  no  part  in  him — no  real  part. 
That  was  because  the  past  was  blank  to  me  and  be- 
cause Stephen  was  sick,  I  suppose.  But  his  sickness 
became  so  natural  to  me  that  I  did  not  always  think 
of  it.  You  see,  I  had  only  known  him  sick." 
'  You  were  always  kind  to  him,  I  know." 

"  Kind?  Oh,  I  suppose  I  was  kind.  I'm  sure  I 
always  meant  to  be.  But  he  loved  me  so  much  that 
he  did  not  want  kindness.  Should  you  be  satisfied 
with  that?" 

Henry  got  up  and  turned  his  back  to  Helen.  The 
temptation  to  speak,  to  tell  everything,  was  almost 
too  strong  to  be  resisted.  Everything  about  her  was 
full  of  a  mute  appeal.  The  past  called  to  him  across 
the  years  and  cried  out  that  it  could  no  longer  be 
severed  from  the  future,  which  was  but  itself  grown 
more  comely.  Anywhere  else  he  would  have  spoken. 
Here,  in  the  face  of  the  everlasting  hills,  in  the  heart 
of  the  changeless  desert,  he  could  be  steadfast.  A  lit- 
tle longer — only  a  little  longer  as  length  of  days  is 
measured  in  eternity. 

"  Sometimes  a  husband  demands  more  than  he 
has  a  right  to  ask,"  he  said,  still  looking  away. 
"  Love  is  deaf  and  blind.  In  fulfilling  its  own  hap- 


HENRY  333 

piness  its  eyes  are  closed  with  the  brightness,  its  ears 
with  the  music.  I  was  cruel,  without  knowing  it — 
and  my  wife  died.  I  was  cruel  in  the  little  things." 

"  As  I  was  in  the  big  things,"  Helen  said. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  responded.  "  I  cannot  imagine  you 
as  cruel.  No,"  he  added,  almost  fiercely.  "  You 
gave  six  years,  the  best  six  years,  of  your  life  to  Bond. 
He  could  not  ask  for  more  than  that.  Have  you 
the  papers  for  me  to  look  at?  " 

'  Yes — here,"  she  said,  holding  them  out.  And 
then,  a  little  tremulously,  "  I  did  not  know  that  you 
had  been  married." 

"  It  was  years  ago." 

"  Before  you  knew  me?  " 

"  Before?  Yes — I  had  met  you.  I  did  not  know 
you." 

"  Could  you  tell  me— a  little,  of  that  past?  " 

He  looked  at  her  a  long  minute  without  speaking. 
There  was  a  longing  in  her  face  that  he  could  not 
deny.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  a  little.  You  remember 
your  childhood?  " 

"  Yes — with  my  mother.    We  were  very  poor." 

"  After  that — you  went  to  a  business  college.  You 
had  to  earn  a  living,  poor  child.  You  were  Mr. 
Stuyvesant's  secretary." 

"Oh!"  she  cried  sharply.     "Then  Stephen  was 


334  THE   GREEN   VASE 

glad  to  keep  me  away  from  Boston  because  of  that. 
People  would  have  been  unkind." 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  You  were  of  gentle 
birth.  In  the  end  they  would  have  remembered 
that." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Stephen  never  told  them 
who  I  was.  That  was  why  Mr.  Moncrieff  was  sur- 
prised, and  you.  How  did  it  happen  that  you  knew 
me?" 

"  I?  "  he  laughed.  "  I  was  not  much  better  off — 
a  struggling  young  lawyer,  with  no  position.  It  is 
I  who  have  changed,  not  you.  Mr.  Stuyvesant  intro- 
duced you  one  day.  I  had  never  met  a  lady — hardly, 
it  seems  to  me.  You  were  kind.  I  can't  understand 
it  now — why  you  were,  I  mean." 

"  It  was  your  strength." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  but  she  was  lost,  appar- 
ently, in  her  own  thoughts. 

"And  then?" 

"  There  was  not  much  more.  You  were  wonder- 
fully kind.  You  went  with  me  to  lunch  sometimes — 
hurried  business  lunches,  for  we  were  working  peo- 
ple. But  we  didn't  care  for  that."  He  checked  him- 
self suddenly.  "  Then  one  day  you  were  gone." 

Together  they  sat  in  silence  while  the  wind  whis- 
pered in  the  palms  and  the  far  desert  quivered  in  the 


HENRY  335 

sunlight.  At  last  she  spoke,  very  softly,  so  that 
Henry  hardly  caught  the  words.  "  I  understand — 
a  little,  still  only  a  little."  Then  she  turned  to  him. 
"  Thank  you  for  telling  me — and,  oh — remember  this. 
It  is  I  who  have  changed — I  must  have  changed — 
not  you.  Shall  we  look  over  the  papers?  " 


CHAPTER   XXII 

A  WEEK  only  Henry  lingered  in  Arizona.  He  could 
not  go  sooner  and  dared  not  stay  longer.  Helen  had 
barely  mentioned  Stephen  again,  except  when  they 
talked  on  business,  but  he  knew  that  every  morning 
before  breakfast  she  stole  out  alone  to  put  fresh  flow- 
ers on  his  grave.  They  took  long  rides  across  the 
desert,  and  once,  when  she  was  busy,  Henry  went 
alone  to  the  Mission. 

He  found  Father  Ignatius  in  the  church.  "  I  am 
Henry  Murphy,"  he  said,  "  the  one  to  whom  you 
sent  Mr.  Bond's  letter." 

"  Your  voice  is  good,"  the  Father  answered. 
"  Come  into  the  light  that  I  may  see  your  face."  He 
led  Henry  down  the  dim  nave  to  the  open  space 
before  the  chancel  where  fell  the  single  shaft  of  sun- 
light. He  looked  at  him,  then  leaned  toward  him, 
catching  him  fiercely  by  the  shoulders.  "  You!  "  he 
cried.  "You!" 

Henry  was  startled.  "  Have  you  seen  me  be- 
fore?" 

The  priest  hesitated.  "  Are  you,  perhaps,  a 
brother  of — the  lady." 

336 


HENRY  337 

"  No." 

"  Nor  of  Mr.  Bond? — but  that  could  not  be." 

"  I  am  not.    Why  do  you  ask?  " 

The  old  priest  took  his  arm,  and  led  him  to  one 
of  the  rude  pews.  "  Sit  down."  Then  he  went  to 
the  altar  and  knelt  for  a  moment,  silently. 

'  Your  face  is  good,"  he  said,  when  he  returned. 
"  But  the  face  of  the  lady  is  like  an  angel's.  How 
may  this  be  possible  if  you  are  the  father  of  the 
boy?" 

Henry  grew  very  pale.  He  could  not  speak  at 
first. 

"  I  have  a  right  to  know  the  mystery,  for  my  right 
to  believe  in  human  nature  as  God  reveals  it  in  the 
faces  of  men  and  women  is  sacred.  Speak." 

"  It  is  true,  Father,"  Henry  said  at  last.  "  The 
boy  is  mine.  I  should  not  have  told  you,  but  you 
knew.  The  lady  was  and  is,  thank  God,  my  wife." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  There  was  a  terrible  accident.  She  was  injured. 
She  forgot  the  past — such  things  are  possible." 

"  But  Stephen  knew." 

"  Yes.     Stephen  knew." 

"Then  his  suffering  was  deserved.  Ah!  but  he 
wanted  to  confess,  my  friend.  Here,  on  the  last  day 
he  came  here,  and  was  alone  with  God.  He  was 


33*  THE  GREEN  VASE 

about  to  make  reparation — as  he  could.  And  then 
death  took  him — but  the  Blessed  Virgin  b  pitiful. 
She  saw  that  he  had  suffered  and  in  death  she  made 
his  repentance  complete.  I  wish  you  might  have  seen 
his  face.  It  would  have  made  your  heart  less  hard." 

M  Monciieff  said  the  same  thing.  But  it  is  better 
as  it  is." 

rVrfaaps.  Anger,  even  righteous  anger,  is  crueL 
Yet  even  when  there  can  be  no  forgiveness  there  may 
be  charity.  Read  his  letter,  my  son.  It  was  the  con- 
fession of  a  dying  man — and  try  to  read  it  with  char- 
ily. The  lady?  Does  she  know?  n 

M  Not  yet.  I  am  going  away  to-morrow.  When 
I  return  there  will  be  time  enough  to  tell  her." 

The  priest's  eyes  sparkled.  "Ton  are  wise,  my 
son,  as  well  as  good.  But  some  time  she  must  know, 
that  she,  too,  may  repent." 

Henry  rode  back,  oppressed  and  yet  glad.  He 
feared  that  others,  less  discreet,  mipni  puf-^%  his  sc- 
cret,  but  was  happy  that  he  could  share  it  with  some 
one  who  understood,  as  Moocriefi  could  not  under- 
stand. 

Before  leaving,  too,  he  divuwd  with  Helen  her 
plans  for  the  future.  She  was  to  stay  in  Arizona  for 
the  winter  and  for  the  summer  go  West.  He  had 
feared  that  she  might  insist  on  going  to  Boston,  but 


HENRY  339 

instead  she  agreed  willingly  to  all  his  suggestions. 
She  knew,  he  felt,  that  he  had  only  told  her  a  small 
part  of  the  past  and  that  she  was  in  his  hands.  He 
had  said  nothing  of  his  return  and  yet  knew  that  she 
expected  him.  Only  to  Harry  he  had  made  a  prom- 
ise. "  Before  you  are  seven  years  old,  my  boy,  I  shall 
come  back  to  see  how  well  you  have  learned  to  ride 
the  pony.'*  And  Harry  had  kissed  him  good-bye  and 
dung  to  him,  die  little  arms  tight  around  his  neck 
until  Miss  Gordon  had  come  to  carry  him  off. 

So  it  was  over — this  new  chapter  and  most  won- 
derful in  his  life.  Henry  lived  back  through  the  days 
as  he  sat  in  the  car,  watching  the  first  sun-rays  touch 
the  white  cupolas  of  the  Mission  St.  Xavier.  And 
most  of  all,  his  mind  and  his  heart  rested  on  this  very 
morning.  He  had  said  his  farewells  to  Helen  the 
night  before — formal,  they  had  been,  devoid  of  any 
deeper  meaning.  But  in  the  early  morning,  when  the 
stars  were  paling,  he  had  gone  to  the  veranda  and 
found  her  waiting. 

"  I  could  not  let  you  go  like  one  who  goes  without 
gratitude  and  love,"  she  had  said. 

They  had  stood  there  together,  in  silence,  through 
long  minutes,  while  the  pure  grey  light  slowly  flowed 
over  the  surface  of  the  desert  and  the  hills  loomed 
out  of  the  shadows.  He  had  not  spoken,  even  when 


340  THE   GREEN   VASE 

they  heard  the  wheels  of  his  carriage  crunching  on 
the  gravel.  He  had  hardly  looked  at  her  for  fear 
that  a  breath  of  emotion  might  shatter  the  sacred- 
ness  of  that  overwhelming  peace.  It  was  enough  to 
feel  her  beside  him.  Only  when  Pedro  had  swung 
his  bag  into  the  carriage  he  leaned  toward  her,  and 
seizing  her  hand,  kissed  it. 

And  now  the  train  was  sweeping  him  away  from 
her — away  from  his  little  son.  All  that  day  and  the 
next  he  sat  almost  motionless  at  his  window  while  he 
watched  the  deserts  of  Arizona  merge  into  those  of 
New  Mexico,  and  so  the  deserts  of  New  Mexico  melt 
into  the  endless  farms  of  Kansas.  It  seemed  to  him 
then  that  he  had  dreamed,  a  wonderful  dream  that 
was  the  most  splendid  reality  of  his  life.  But  now 
the  great  peace  of  the  wilderness  was  left  behind,  and 
in  the  wilderness  the  dream,  and  the  reality.  Among 
men  once  more,  the  habit  of  years  took  hold  of  him 
again.  He  was  himself,  the  keen,  practical  man  of 
affairs,  self-reliant,  eager  to  learn,  his  eyes  always 
open  to  opportunity.  But  he  was  no  longer  me- 
chanical. People  who  saw  him  looked  at  him  again, 
for  behind  the  honest  eyes  there  was  a  flame  of  hap- 
piness; across  the  practical  mouth  flickered  the  smile 
of  one  whose  vision  had  come  true. 

Before  reaching  St.  Louis  he  was  planning  eagerly 


HENRY  341 

for  the  future.  He  remembered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings, and  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  decided  to 
write  them.  After  all,  he  had  few  more  loyal  friends. 
It  was  not  easy,  but  he  told  them  the  whole  story. 
"  And  now,"  he  added,  "  will  you  add  one  more  to 
your  many  kindnesses?  Will  you  stop  in  Tucson  on 
your  way  back,  to  see  Helen?  In  no  other  way  can 
you  understand.  Tell  her  as  much  of  me  as  you  will, 
except,  of  course,  the  one  great  fact  of  my  life.  That 
she  must  learn  from  me — how,  I  do  now  know,  but 
if  it  can  be  through  her  own  awakening  it  must  be. 
You  are  rejoicing  with  me.  I  shall  think  of  you — 
happy  with  her.  And,  by  the  way,  Tucson  is  quite 
worth  visiting,  if  only  to  see  the  Mission  St.  Xavier. 
Father  Ignatius  there  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  of  hers. 
Don't  misjudge  him  because  he  wears  a  cassock.  And 
kiss  the  child  for  me — over  and  over  again.  You 
will  not  be  able  to  help  it,  anyway." 

Then  he  wrote  to  Helen.  It  was  not  the  first  time. 
There  seemed  so  much  to  say  of  the  deserts  and  of 
the  people  standing  in  the  crude  stations,  and  of 
her,  and  of  the  boy.  He  told  her  of  his  letter  to 
Mrs.  Jennings.  "  She  is  a  common  woman  with  a 
kind  heart  and  a  noble  husband.  You  will  seldom 
see  her  when  the  time  comes  for  you  to  return  to 
Boston.  And  for  that  reason  you  may  think  it  strange 


342  THE    GREEN   VASE 

that  I  want  you  to  know  her.  But  I  do,  and  much 
more  I  want  her  to  know  you.  Will  you  trust  me  to 
see  for  you  this  time?  "  Then  he  told  her  about  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Jennings,  their  peculiarities  and  the  fine 
qualities  that  he  feared  she  might  miss  under  the 
superficial  vulgarity;  and  about  the  Club.  There  was 
no  difficulty  in  writing.  The  only  trouble  was  to 
come  to  an  end. 

In  St.  Louis  he  found  letters  from  Boston  waiting. 
In  the  heavy  envelope  from  Stuyvesant  and  Bond's 
office  was  the  letter  from  Tucson,  and  next  it  a  square, 
lavender  note  mailed  only  two  days  before  in  Boston. 
More  on  account  of  these  two  envelopes  than  any  real 
desire  for  solitude  he  changed  from  his  section  into 
the  stateroom. 

But  the  train  was  well  on  its  way  before  he  broke 
the  seals.  Toward  both,  the  letter  forwarded  by  Fa- 
ther Ignatius  and  the  scented  missive  from  Katherine 
Bland,  he  felt  a  curious  repugnance.  One  must  in- 
evitably tear  open  old  wounds — he  wanted  only  to 
forget  Stephen.  The  other  brought  back  into  his  life 
a  woman  who,  for  her  sake,  if  not  for  his,  he  thought, 
should  never  have  been  there. 

He  opened  Stephen's  letter  first  and  read  it  merci- 
lessly, his  teeth  clenched.  Then  he  folded  it  pre- 
cisely and  put  it  into  his  pocketbook.  There  was 


HENRY  343 

nothing  he  had  not  known,  nothing  he  could  forgive. 
But  as  he  sat  staring  out  over  the  snow-dotted  fields, 
he  felt  in  spite  of  himself  a  kind  of  savage  pity  for 
this  weakling,  this  creature  whom  generations  of  vir- 
tue had  made  vicious.  Stephen's  "  strength,"  his  be- 
lief that  he  was  "  reconquering  the  freedom  of  his 
primeval  ancestors,"  all  this  seemed  to  him  the  boast- 
ing of  a  madman  who  was  afraid  frankly  to  admit 
himself  a  sinner.  And  yet,  at  the  end,  Stephen  had 
confessed  his  sin,  admitted  it  with  profound  sorrow. 
It  had  brought  him,  in  the  final  count,  no  joy.  He 
did  not  ask  forgiveness.  He  only  begged  for  Helen, 
and  that  was  what  seemed  to  Henry  so  bitter,  so 
unendurable.  What  right  had  this  man  to  ask  fa- 
vours for  her?  How  did  he  dare  to  suggest  that  she 
needed  an  advocate?  Should  a  sinner  plead  for  a 
saint?  But  Henry  was  too  honest  with  himself  to 
ignore  the  pathos  of  the  letter.  One  sentence  kept 
ringing  in  his  mind.  "  I  had  everything — except 
Helen.  And  without  Helen  everything  was  noth- 
ing." That  was  true,  true.  Had  he  not  realised  it 
all  these  years  while  all  the  good  things  of  life  came 
to  him,  tasteless,  meaningless,  because  she  was  not 
there  to  share  them  ?  Nor  did  he  read  any  sophistry 
into  the  letter.  It  was  too  clearly  a  death-cry  to 
sound  any  note  but  that  of  passionate  truth.  Stephen 


THE  GREEM  VASE 

; :  -. :  i  "     :    •  r    :  ~ : ; ;  :  :  ~  :  ~' : : . :    ~  ~       :  :  *  r~. :.:  ~    ~.i : 
P*gAJ  •one;  for  hamscu,.  he  cvidcntlj  knew.,  no ; 
:i.  ::*r     i"i:r    •  i:   _':^.j  r.r      N:    i*  :~. :;   i  i  i; 

uttered,  hot  only 
dnodU  not  he  made  to  think  more 
luiiMy  of  hmi  than  she  nnst.  Henry  sltiuggtd  his 
r.  Helm  was  infinitely  kind;  bat  she 
let  cifdi  of  lorep  irifcih,  cruel  love,  blind 
to  the  troth.  Katherine  Bbnd  nngjht  do  that — 
who  had  longed  for  lowe  and  bad  never 
rownd  tt^  wno  nao  *^^^^mftl  ox  passMHi  ^*"  bad  frffn 

r.± 


He  lute  open  her  note  somewhat:  angiuj.    He  had 

*_  J    M^_        **  __j,  ^ 

•  ner,  nowv  ana  the  uLuut  or  a 


the  paper  rrolkdh 


leaBy  a  pernmc  that  f^HiM  be  denned  as 
vas  it  cessation  of  other  ••••"•*,  as 
a  inr«ilh  of  mountain  airr  pungent  with  the 
•r  of  open  pastnns,  had  cut  suddenly 
a  city  street.    Henry  saghed  and  read. 


HEXKT:  I  haw  mined  TOO 

•  '.'-.  2.~~-   '- -'-  '.--'-'--'----  '.-..',.'. 
teatmes.    They  ask.  me  what  I  hear 
I  have  not  heard.    Of  cpune  they  don't 


HENRY  345 


believe  it,  all  of  which  bores  me.  Mr.  Stnyi 
made  love  to  me  at  dinner  last  night — he  is  perennially 
young — and  told  me  that  you  would  be  back  on 
Wednesday.  Come  to  see  me  that  evening.  I  need 
a  bit  of  desert  air,  much  as  I  should  hate  it  in  large 
doses.  Sincerely,  KATHEKDCE. 

"  P.  S. — It  was  very  sad  about  Stephen,  I  sup- 
pose. Somehow  it  didn't  touch  me — much.  He 
had  drifted  away  so  far  from  everything  that 
concerns  us.  But  I  do  want  to  hear  about  his 
wife.  She  was  always  mysterious,  and  I  suppose  that 
with  the  mystery  gone  she  will  prove  as  banal  as  all 
the  rest.  Still,  I  want  to  know  about  her.  One  more 
illusion  gone  won't  matter.  I  wish  some  one  would 
do  something  really  exciting  to  think  about.  1L" 

That  was  alL  There  was  nothing  of  the  slightest 
importance  in  the  ultimate  scheme  of  things,  and  the 
train  was  racing  across  the  thickly  populated  state  of 
Illinois.  Yet  here  was  the  picture  of  a  woman  for 
whom  life  held  no  dreams — sad,  the  saddest  thing  in 
the  whole  cirde  of  ebdstence.  She  was  holding  out 
her  hands  to  Henry  in  one  last  pitiful  request  that 
she  might  have  a  little  of  the  truly  vital  happiness 
of  the  world.  And  the  very  fulness  of  his  own  joy 
made  the  request  impossible  to  grant. 

He  turned  resolutely  to  his  batch  of  business  pa- 
pers. In  the  days  when  there  had  been  no  hope  for 


346  THE    GREEN   VASE 

him  work  had  saved  him.  But  now  it  was  not  his 
sorrow  he  was  fighting.  It  was  rather  that  his  hap- 
piness might  not  make  him  blind.  Katherine's  face 
kept  appearing.  He  could  not  shut  it  out.  Her 
problems  were  heavy  on  him  as  well  as  his  own,  and 
Helen's,  which  were  but  another  aspect  of  his  own. 

So  the  hours  dragged,  night  was  torture,  and  it 
seemed  months  before  the  golden  dome  of  the  Bos- 
ton State  House  glowed  at  last  through  the  afternoon 
mist. 

Henry  went  directly  to  the  office,  where  he  found 
Stuyvesant.  "  Good  to  see  you,  old  man.  I  was  be- 
ginning to  find  sole  tenure  irksome.  Beastly  sad  about 
Steve,  wasn't  it.  Hard  he  couldn't  even  live  to  see 
you." 

"  He  wouldn't  have  wanted  to.  Life  had  nothing 
for  him.  Death,  I  imagine,  was  the  most  welcome 
change  that  he  could  have  had." 

"  Good  Lord !  I  knew  he  was  sick — suffering,  most 
likely.  But  he  had  his  wife  and  his  kid.  Or  were 
they  an  impossible  pair?  " 

".He  had  neither  wife  nor  child." 

"  Had  no Good  Lord,  Murphy,  are  you 

drunk  or  haven't  you  been  in  Arizona  all  these  days?  " 

"  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  said." 

"  Well,  you  needn't,"  Stuyvesant  said  angrily,  "  un- 


HENRY  347 

less  you  will  tell  me  what  in  the  devil  you  are  talking 
about." 

Henry  took  out  Stephen's  letter.  "  I  don't  feel  up 
to  it,"  he  said.  "  I'm  tired,  and  want  a  bath.  This 
will  explain.  I  sha'n't  show  it  to  any  one  else,  but 
you  have  a  right  to  see  it.  I  shall  be  in  my  rooms 
at  eleven  o'clock  to-night  if  you  want  to  see  me.  I 
don't  need  to  ask  you  to  say  nothing  of  the  letter  or 
its  contents." 

"  All  this  mystery  seems  moderately  silly.  But 
have  your  own  way.  "  Only,"  he  called,  as  Henry 
opened  the  door,  "  I  can't  go  to  your  rooms.  I'm 
booked  for  the  opera." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Katherine  Bland  reached  die  age  of  twenty- 

hcstth  "**•  broken 

•  ••  ••••_••     ••••  !•    •*»^^«»^^M. 


OK  stfaai  of  a  f|uaitei  century  of  almost  i.«.ni;e«  • 
social  gaiety,  refused  any  longer  to  keep  house  and 
tool.,  an  apartment  on  Commonwealth  Avenue,  Ka  th- 
ctine  had  rebelled  against  being  "  cooped  up,"  as  she 
'  with  querulous  parents."*  and  had  com- 
by  taking  her  own  apartment  just  below 
She  was  thus  "under  the  shadow  of  the 
parental  wing,*"  but  was  still  able  to  lead  her  own 
independent  fife.  And  mdcprndrnt  it  certainly  had 
become  during  the  last  four  years.  From  an  un- 
sophisticated girl  she  had  developed  into  a  sophis- 
icatrd  and  consciously  uocouveuljonal  wimun.  As 
a  girl  she  had  lived  in  a  world  of  romance,  and  as  a 
woman  she  was  a  brutal  reafist. 

ha<|  tp*t  c"ny  tmr  «i-g  almost- 


On  this  Wednesday  ewenmg  she  lay  back  in  her 
chair,  actually  «l.M.«iiig  again,  and  the  ok!  habit 
some  of  the  glow  back  into  her  pale  cheeks. 


HENRY  549 

Her  dinner  gown  was  of  delicate  lavender,  trimmed 
with  silver  lace,  and  the  chair  in  which  die  sat  was 
upholstered  in  old,  black,  stamped  leather.  The  con- 
trast was  startling,  but  supremely  effective,  and  Katfa- 
erine  never  missed  effects.  She  watched  the  hands 
of  the  dock  as  they  approached  nine.  Henry  would 
come  almost  before  the  quiver  of  the  stroke  had  died 
away.  That  was  one  of  the  surprises  of  the  man, 
the  fact  that  he  was  always  punctual  A  year  ago, 
when  she  had  met  him,  it  had  irritated  her.  It 
seemed  one  of  the  many  indications  of  lack  of 
imagination  on  his  part,  a  stain  of  the  past  that  still 
dung  to  him  But  she  had  soon  learned  to  daUngunli 
between  traits  of  his  character  and  of  his  « raining, 
and,  as  she  knew  him  better,  had  come  to  reverence 
the  former — even  his  faults — as  she  set  herself  to 
eradicate  the  latter.  Only  a  few  days  previously 
Stnyvesant  had  complimented  her  on  having  cre- 
ated a  gentleman."*  "But  no,"  she  had  protested 
with  a  sincerity  that  had  startled  her  partner— "  Bat 
no,  I  have  not  created  a  gentleman.  I  have  only 
pulled  off  some  of  the  awkward  garments  that  hid 
him  from  imdiscernmg  eyes.  She  had  been  keenly 
interested  in  her  experiment,  and  then  Henry  had 
gone  away,  and  she  had  suddenly  become  aware  of 
herself  through  her  own  loneliness  All  these  years 


350  THE   GREEN  VASE 

she  had  waited  for  a  fairy  prince  to  come  to  her 
from  the  skies,  to  hang  ropes  of  pearls  around  her 
neck,  and  to  carry  her  off  in  his  golden  chariot.  And 
instead  had  come  a  plain  man  of  the  people  for  her 
to  educate,  and  she  wanted  no  better  chariot  than  a 
common  cab — so  long  as  he  carried  her  off. 

"  Mr.  Henry  Murphy,  Miss  Bland,"  the  maid 
said. 

Katherine  looked  at  the  clock.  It  had  just  struck 
the  hour  and  she  had  not  heard  She  did  not  rise 
as  Henry  came  in,  merely  held  out  her  hand  and 
smiled  at  him  "  The  West  has  not  made  you  un- 
punctual.  Will  you  smoke?  " 

"  Thank  you."  He  took  a  cigar  from  the  box  on 
her  table.  "  Shall  I  light  your  cigarette?  " 

"  No.  I  have  been  smoking.  Besides,  you  don't 
like  women  who  smoke." 

"  That  is  not  fair.  I  like  women  I  am  fond  of 
not  to  smoke." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stop?  " 

"  I  think  you  do  it  too  much  for  your  health." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stop?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  purely  a  matter  of  health,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  And  it  does  not  suit  the  outdoor 
freshness  of  your  rooms.  I  noticed  the  perfume 
when  I  opened  your  letter  on  the  train.  It  is  curi- 


HENRY  351 

ously  unlike  you.  I  think  of  you  rather  with  the 
odour  of  violets  and  hothouse  flowers." 

"  It  is  a  relic  of  my  youth,"  she  said.  "  It  makes 
people  forget  that  I  am  growing  old.  When  I  am 
alone — well,  then  I  fill  the  room  with  gardenias  and 
burn  a  thin  stream  of  incense.  It  really  suits  me  bet- 
ter, as  you  say,  and  when  all  my  hope  is  gone,  when  I 
am  willing  that  people  should  take  me  for  an  old 
maid,  then  I  shall  have  gardenias  always.  The  per- 
fume of  youth  will  give  way  to  the  cloying  sweetness 
of  middle  life  that  must  fascinate,  like  a  chorus  girl, 
by  means  of  the  externals.  Then,  my  friend,  you 
may  find  gardenias  here.  But  not  till  then.  Are 
you  glad  to  be  at  home?  " 

"  Yes,  because  I  have  work  to  do  and  yet  no — 
because  there  is  a  freedom  in  the  deserts  that  I  have 
always  longed  for." 

She  looked  at  him  closely.  "  It  was  sad  about 
Stephen." 

"Why?  You  said  it  did  not  touch  you — his 
death." 

"  I  said  not  much.  I  wanted  to  marry  him  at  one 
time.  Indeed,  I  think  I  always  wanted  to  marry 
him  after  we  were  children.  We  spent  the  night 
once  in  the  woods  together  and  watched  the  sun  rise. 
He  was  thirteen  and  I  was  ten.  Before  we  had 


352  THE   GREEN   VASE 

breakfast,  I  remember,  he  went  off  through  the  woods 
and  had  a  swim.  I  can  feel  the  touch  of  his  wet 
hair  on  my  cheek  as  he  kissed  me,  now.  Then  I 
sprained  my  ankle  and  he  carried  me  home." 

"  But  you  did  not  marry  him." 

"  No.  He  loved  me — a  little.  But  my  mother 
laid  her  trap  for  him  too  openly.  Stephen  was  never 
one  to  be  caught." 

"  Not  unless  he  loved  greatly." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Or  perhaps  I  know.  Let 
me  tell  you  another  incident  that  I  remember.  It 
was  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  I  had  been  dining 
alone  with  Sally  Fisher  and  was  crossing  the  Com- 
mon on  my  way  home.  I  met  Stephen,  who  was 
wild-eyed  and  strange.  He  had  been  dining  with  a 
woman  somewhere — I  remember  I  was  startled  to 
find  he  was  that  kind.  It  was  the  breaking  of  one 
of  my  most  cherished  illusions.  He  talked  incoher- 
ently, but  I  gathered  that  he  was  asking  me  to  solve 
some  great  social  problem — whether  the  man  who 
started  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  could  ever  build 
for  himself  a  social  position  that  could  place  him  on 
an  equal  footing  with  those  of  us  who  were  gently 
born.  I  told  him  that  it  was  not  possible.  I  was 
young  then,  and  had  not  thought.  The  next  day  he 
went  away." 


HENRY  353 

"  So  you,  too !     You,  too,  had  your  part  in  it  all." 

"  In  what?     You  are  breaking  your  cigar,  Henry." 

He  tossed  it  into  the  fire.  "  Bond  had  been  dining 
with  my  wife." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry." 

1  You  need  not  be — not  in  that  way.  I  knew  all 
about  it,  insisted  on  it,  in  fact." 

"  He  must  have  married  immediately  afterward." 

"  No.  He  was  a  man  who  could  love  once  only. 
He  loved  my  wife." 

"  And  after  she  was  killed  he  could  not  come  back. 
Poor  Stephen!  But  I  thought  he  was  married.  I 
have  heard  he  had  a  wife  and  child — Oh !  "  she  cried, 
looking  at  Henry.  "  It  could  not  have  been " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered, . "  my  wife  and  my  child  were 
with  him  when  he  died." 

"How  terrible!" 

"  No,  I  will  tell  you  about  it."  She  sat  listening, 
losing  not  an  expression  on  his  face  as.  he  told  his 
story.  She  felt  herself  in  the  grip  of  a  growing  ter- 
ror, but  could  not  give  up  hope. 

"  I  feel  still  that  it  is  horrible  for  you,"  she  said 
at  last,  tremblingly. 

"Why?" 

"  Oh — the  shock  of  it  all — the  publicity.  You  will 
get  a  divorce,  of  course." 


354  ^HE   GREEN   VASE 

"Why?  Has  she  done  anything  to  deserve  such 
treatment?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  surely  you  are  free. 
You  have  outgrown  her.  You  can't  go  back  in  life 
— tie  yourself  to  a  common  woman — fall  again  into 
the  position  of  six  years  ago."  Henry  got  up  from 
his  chair  and  walked  across  the  room.  "It  is 
quixotic.  I  know  your  chivalry,  how  good  you  are, 
but  you  must  think  of  yourself.  What  would  Mr. 
Stuyvesant  think — his  secretary !  " 

Henry  stood  in  front  of  her.  "  What  reason  can 
you  give?  "  she  added,  her  words  almost  inaudible. 

"  The  one  real,  great,  eternal  reason,"  he  said 
sternly.  "  Because  I  love  her.  Because  I  have  al- 
ways loved  her  and  always  shall — her  and  no  one 
else." 

Katherine  bowed  her  head  into  her  hands,  seemed 
to  crumple  in  her  chair,  and  Henry,  standing  over  her, 
looked  down  on  her  black  hair,  where  a  single  dia- 
mond ornament,  trembling,  gave  focus  to  his  vision. 
"  I  love  her,"  he  continued  sternly,  "  because  when  I 
was  struggling  she  helped  me  to  rise  and  blessed 
me  with  her  love.  She  was  born  a  lady  and  her 
troubles  never  roughened  the  surface.  When  I  mar- 
ried her  she  suffered  because  I  did  not  understand 
her  point  of  view,  because  I  was  too  crude  to  see  her 


HENRY  3jj 

as  she  really  was.  Now  I  can  make  her  happy — 
thanks  to  what  I  have  learned,  and  thanks,  most  of 
all,  to  you."  He  saw  her  shiver.  "  You  were  right 
— what  you  said  to  Stephen — that  the  man  who 
starts  at  the  bottom  can  never  reach  the  position  of 
those  who  are  gently  born,  your  place  and 
Helen's.  But  his  children  can — in  this  country, 
thank  God.  I  can  only  worship  her  and  work  for 
Harry." 

Katherine  raised  her  head.  Her  face  was  paper- 
white  except  for  two  burning  spots  on  her  cheeks. 
Her  eyes  looked  like  ashes  under  which  the  fire  still 
glowed.  "  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  "  she  whispered. 

He  leaned  down  and  took  her  hands  in  his  and 
kissed  them. 

Then  she  went  on.  "  I  have  no  shame,  Henry. 
All  my  life  I  have  longed  for  a  fairy-prince  and  I 
thought  I  had  found  him.  He  belonged  to  another 
woman.  What  colour  is  her  hair,  Henry?  " 

"  Red-gold." 

"  I  thought  so — and  mine  is  black.  My  dreams 
are  over  now — but  I  love  you,  dear,  and  because  of 
that  I  will  help  you.  Only  tell  me  what  to  do.  It 
cannot  be  too  hard.  And  then,  perhaps,  by-and- 
by,  I  shall  marry  Moncrieff,"  she  laughed.  '  Two 
such  cynics  as  we — well,  we  should  save  each  other 


356  THE   GREEN   VASE 

from  making  others  unhappy.  Kiss  me,  now,  please 
— Helen  would  not  mind — and  then  go.  I  am  very 
tired." 

Henry  drew  her  up  from  her  chair  and  kissed  her. 
He  could  hardly  see  her.  Then  he  dashed  from  the 
room,  but  as  he  reached  the  door  he  heard  her  say, 
"  God  bless  you." 

He  walked  rapidly  down  Commonwealth  Avenue, 
taking  long  breaths  of  the  cold  night  air.  He  could 
not  know  that  she  was  lying  face-downward  on  her 
sofa,  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  He 
did  know  that  even  in  her  suffering  she  would  be  his 
friend,  and  for  that  was  glad  he  had  told  her. 

In  his  rooms  he  found  Stuyvesant  waiting  for  him. 
"  I  thought  you  were  at  the  opera." 

"  Opera  be  hanged !  I  went  to  my  dinner  because 
nothing  short  of  death  should  break  a  dinner  engage- 
ment. But,  my  heavens,  man,  when  a  fellow  has 
just  read  a  dying  confession  that  proves  his  best  friend 
a  scoundrel,  he  can't  sit  through  three  acts  of  idiocy 
set  to  a  more  or  less  tuneful  accompaniment.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  until  she  saw  you,  your  wife 
that  was  didn't  know  that  she  had  been  breaking  all 
the  laws?" 

"  She  doesn't  know  it  now." 

"  But,  good  Lord,  she's  got  to  know  it  some  time. 


HENRY  357 

I  say,  old  man,  it  must  have  been  something  of  a 
shock  to  you." 

"  It  was.  The  luck  was  that  I  didn't  quite  make  a 
fool  of  myself  and  spoil  everything  at  once." 

"  Spoil  everything?  It's  pretty  thoroughly  spoiled 
now,  I  should  think.  How  are  you  going  to  dispose 
of  her?" 

"  Dispose  of  her?  What  do  you  mean?  One 
doesn't  dispose  of  one's  wife." 

'  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  take  up 
with  her  again?  " 

"  What  else  could  I  mean?  She  is  as  innocent  as 
I  am — and,  what's  more,  I  happen  to  love  her." 

Stuyvesant  whistled.  "  Of  all  the — you'll  have 
to  tell  Katherine  Bland." 

"  I  have  told  her." 

'  You  don't  waste  time,  do  you  ?  Poor  Katherine 
—if  I  weren't  such  a  confirmed  bachelor  I'd  marry  her 
myself." 

"  She  wouldn't  have  you." 

"  Possibly.  She's  a  queer  one — but  pathetic  just 
now.  Always  has  been,  I  think,  and  this  must  have 
hit  hard  all  around.  Did  you  know  she  used  to  be 
in  love  with  Steve?  Damn  him.  Why  couldn't  he 
let  a  respectable  family  name  rest  clean  as  it  always 
had  been  ?  He  was  the  very  last  one,  too.  They're 


358  THE    GREEN   VASE 

all  dead  now — the  Bonds.  Died  out  like  so  many 
of  our  old  New  England  families.  It  will  save  a 
beastly  contest  over  the  will.  I  suppose  he  left 
everything  to  her." 

"  Yes.  That's  the  hardest  thing  to  swallow. 
You  are  trustee.  The  will  was  probated  in  Arizona. 
By  the  way,  I  have  a  letter  to  you  from  him.  I  for- 
got it  this  afternoon."  He  went  to  his  bedroom  and 
returned  immediately. 

Stuyvesant  tore  open  the  envelope.  "  You  know," 
he  said,  "  I've  never  been  what  they  call  a  saint.  But 
this — the  whole  thing  so  cold-blooded — I  mean  as 
time  went  on.  It  makes  me  crawl  to  touch  his  writ- 
ing even.  This  is  probably  meant  for  you  as  much 
as  for  me."  He  read  aloud.  "  '  Yesterday  I  made 
my  will,  leaving  everything  to  my  wife  and  child.  I 
have  no  wife,  no  child,  but  if  ever  the  will  should  be 
contested  I  wish  this  statement  to  be  conclusive  as  to 
its  meaning.  By  my  wife  I  mean  Helen  Smith  Mur- 
phy, who  has  lived  with  me  as  my  wife  for  five  years, 
not  knowing  that  she  had  a  husband.  By  my  son  I 
mean  her  son,  Harry  Murphy,  who  has  been  my  great 
consolation  in  these  days  of  sickness.  I  pray  God  to 
make  her  life,  which  I  have  done  my  best  to  ruin,  as 
noble  in  its  later  years  as  it  has  been  in  its  earlier,  and 
that  my  fortune  may  bring  her  what  happiness  it  may. 


HENRY  359 

I  trust  you,  as  my  friend  and  the  executor  of  my  will, 
to  see  that  its  provisions  are  carried  out  as  I  meant 
them.'  By  gad,  he's  had  it  witnessed.  He  has 
done  his  best,  poor  fellow.  Your  wife  is  one  of  the 
richest  women  in  Boston,  Murphy." 

"  Yes.  The  income  she  can  give  away.  The  prin- 
cipal must  go  eventually  to  Harry.  I  shall  not  mind 
that  so  much.  Now  as  to  the  future.  What  am  I 
to  do?" 

Stuyvesant  looked  at  him  and  a  queer  smile  played 
over  his  face.  "  I  think  that  that  you'll  have  to  settle 
yourself,  old  man.  I'm  neither  a  divorce  court  nor  a 
matrimonial  agency.  Katherine  might  help  you. 
The  quickest  cure  for  her  would  be  just  that  probing 
of  the  wound.  She's  queer,  but  her  heart  is  in  the 
right  place — if  she  has  any  left.  If  not,  her  wit  will 
pretty  well  supply  the  deficiency.  Think  it  over.  I 
am  going  to  the  Club  to  drink  at  least  ten  long  Bour- 
bon highballs  and  curse  the  world  for  upsetting  itself. 
It  had  no  right — at  its  age  and  mine.  Some  day  you 
must  tell  me  about  what  happened  in  Arizona.  Not 
now — I  should  just  swear.  And  if  Katherine  is  ob- 
streperous let  me  know." 

Henry  threw  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and,  light- 
ing a  pipe,  sat  down  before  the  fire.  "  Poor  Kath- 
erine !  "  he  thought,  and  the  world  seemed  very 


360  THE   GREEN   VASE 

strange,  a  topsy-turvy  universe  where  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  "  all  things  work  together  for  good." 
Helen,  cursed  by  too  much  love,  Katherine  by  lack 
of  it.  And  why?  God  knew.  Both  were  good  to 
look  upon,  both  had  intellect,  both  had  that  strange 
fascination  that  is  sometimes  the  dower  even  of  ugly 
women — charm.  Katherine  had  them  all  in  greater 
measure,  even,  than  Helen — and  yet — he  did  not  love 
her;  Stephen,  also,  had  not  loved  her;  no  man  had 
ever  loved  her  as  two  had  loved  Helen.  She  would 
not  marry  Moncrieff,  he  was  sure.  That  binding  of 
a  restless  mind  to  a  restless  body  could  only  bring 
disaster.  No,  she  would  live  her  lonely  life,  a  fac- 
tor in  the  world's  eager  search  for  diversion,  herself 
diverting,  but  never  amused.  He  saw  the  dead  years 
stretching  before  her,  and  the  years  were  like  the 
desert,  and  Katherine  a  gay,  sad  flower  lying  there, 
tossed  by  the  winds,  shrinking  from  the  soil  that 
would  give  her  life,  and  drooping,  drooping  very 
slowly,  and  bravely,  and  beautifully  until  the  winds 
carried  her  away,  into  the  dark  canons  where  the 
souls  of  the  sorrowful  weep  together.  And  nothing 
would  be  left  but  a  perfume — the  treasured  memory 
of  the  wild  freshness  of  her  youth. 

He  was  dreaming.     Never  had  it  happened  be- 
fore— this  seeing  visions  in  the  night.     And  he  knew 


HENRY  361 

that  the  sad  dream  of  another  woman  came,  through 
space,  from  Helen.  For  she  was  in  the  desert,  and 
she  drew  her  life  from  the  elemental  soil  from  which 
Katherine  shrank  daintily  away.  Was  this  an  answer 
to  his  question  ? 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

TUCSON,  ARIZONA,  Feb.  25. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  MURPHY: — Here  Mr.  Jennings 
and  I  are  with  your  beautiful  wife.  If  ever  there 
was  a  hard-used  angel  it  is  surely  her.  Since  receipt 
of  your  letter  I  have  not  had  time  to  write,  what  with 
the  powerful  excitement  and  the  job  of  getting  Mr. 
Jennings  to  leave  Los  Angeles  at  once.  What  is  cor- 
rupt city  government  to  me,  says  I,  in  collusion  with 
a  lady  in  distress.  Nothing,  I  answered  myself,  we 
leave  Los  Angeles  to-day,  and  if  you  can't  get  a 
berth  I  can,  if  we  have  to  go  in  two  uppers.  Mr. 
Jennings  went  to  the  depo  and  came  back  with 
nothing.  Then  I  went  and  I  was  real  cross  with 
that  poor  young  man  behind  the  wicket,  although 
it  was  not  his  fault  that  we  had  to  waste  a  whole  day. 
Then  I  tried  to  write  you,  but  my  pen  kept  getting 
broke  so  with  anger  about  that  man  that  I  even  for- 
got my  spelling  and  had  to  give  it  up.  As  president 
of  a  Literary  Society  I  could  not  send  a  miss-spelled 
letter.  Well  on  the  next  day  we  left  without  Mr.  J 
reforming  Los  Angeles.  They  say  that  means  the 
Angels,  but  I  guess  the  folks  that  made  out  the  hotel- 
prices  were  no  very  close  relations  to  the  founders. 
My,  but  that  train  was  slow.  We  were  due  to  ar- 
rive in  Tucson  (I  wish  they  would  spell  it  the  way 

363 


HENRY  363 

they  say  it)  at  six  a.  m.  I  was  up  and  dressed  by 
five  and  we  did  not  arrive  until  10  a.  m.  and  I 
would  not  have  breakfast  because  I  was  afraid  we 
might  not  have  time  to  finish  and  we  had  spent  enough 
money  at  that  hotel  not  to  want  to  waste  any  more. 
Will  you  believe  it  Helen  was  at  the  station  to  meet 
us  in  a  cunning  carriage  with  two  black  horses.  I 
told  her  it  was  mortal  cruel  to  cut  their  tails,  but  she 
said  she  did  not  do  it.  Sometimes  she  doesn't  an- 
swer questions  as  I  would  like  but  I  wouldn't  let  that 
pregudice  me  to  one  thats  been  through  what  she  has 
and  more  to  come.  About  the  boy  I  have  nothing 
to  say  but  good.  The  little  lamb !  His  cunning 
face  and  bright  eyes  and  looking  just  like  his  daddy 
all  just  made  me  want  to  cry  and  I  kissed  him  so 
hard  that  his  cheek  hurt  so  he  had  to  have  his  mother 
kiss  it  again.  I  aint  going  to  say  anything  about 
Mr.  Bond.  I  only  wish  he'd  been  the  man  I  said 
those  things  to  in  the  park  instead  of  that  English- 
man. He  was  just  a  snake  that  God  forgot  to  take 
the  legs  off  of,  I  guess.  Helen  showed  us  his  grave 
and  I  most  screamed  I  wanted  so  to  do  something  de- 
graded to  it.  It  has  a  white  cross  on  it  that  seems 
to  me  not  right  even  if  that  Father  at  the  Mission 
says  it  is,  being  a  sign  of  suffering.  If  that  man  suf- 
fered I'm  glad  of  it  and  I  would  not  say  that  about 
a  porcupine.  I  won't  say  a  word  about  the  country 
either.  There's  fresh  air  aplenty,  but  so  is  there  in 
South  Boston  when  the  wind's  right.  And  we  don't 
have  to  look  at  sand  all  day.  The  doctor  came  to 


364  THE   GREEN   VASE 

call  yesterday  before  supper  and  he  just  raved  about 
the  view.  Now  what  is  there  in  it?  says  I.  Nothing 
but  sand  and  some  places  the  Creator  of  us  all  has 
raised  it  up  higher  than  other  places.  I  can  see  all 
the  sand  I  want  on  the  beach  at  home  and  water  to 
go  with  it  as  is  proper.  He  looked  kinder  supprised 
but  I  guess  he  was  only  saying  it  to  make  himself 
feel  contented  with  his  lot.  There's  a  great  deal  in 
being  cheerful  under  adversaries,  even  sand.  But 
here  I've  been  running  on  and  using  up  all  of  Helen's 
paper  and  not  saying  what  I  set  down  to  say  at  all. 
She  loves  you.  I'm  sure  of  it  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  think  about  it.  In  the  first  place  it  doesn't  seem 
hardly  decent  for  her  to  be  loving  with  what  she  be- 
lieved was  her  husband  hardly  cold  yet.  And  in  the 
second  place  if  she  didn't  love  you  I  would  think 
her  natural  instinct  was  dead  in  her.  Mr.  Jennings 
says  its  that  and  I  guess  he  is  about  right  for  once. 
Only  it  all  goes  to  show  she  could  not  have  loved  that 
man.  I  am  telling  you  this  because  you  will  want  to 
marry  her  again  or  something  as  soon  as  he  has  been 
out  of  the  way  long  enough  so  folks  won't  talk  and 
because  it's  just  as  bad  for  her  to  be  living  in  this 
pesky  place  as  it  is  for  you  to  be  eating  your  heart 
out  (I  always  did  think  that  was  a  foolish  remark) 
about  her  in  Boston.  Mr.  J.  is  fretting  to  go  so  I 
suppose  we  must  in  a  day  or  two  and  I  am  willing 
now  I  have  seen  her  and  am  in  a  torment  all  the 
time  for  fear  I  will  say  something  I  oughtnt  to.  If 
there  was  politics  in  Tucson  I  suppose  we  would  stay 


HENRY  365 

a  month,  and  I  could  not  hold  out  all  that  time. 
When  we  get  to  Boston  we  will  see  you  right  away 
and  you  can  depend  on  us.  I  haven't  written  to  any 
of  my  friends  about  it,  only  as  a  queer  story  I 
heard. 

Yours  truly, 

AMANDA  JENNINGS. 

Henry  read  the  letter  with  some  amusement,  some 
trepidation,  and  profound  happiness.  It  told  him 
nothing  that  he  did  not  really  know,  but  it  was  still 
a  relief  to  be  assured  that  Helen  loved  him.  The 
scruples  of  Mrs.  Jennings  as  to  her  right  to  love  him 
so  soon  he  could  explain  to  himself  by  the  fact  that 
she  had  always  loved  him.  Stephen  she  had  cared 
for,  nursed,  respected,  but,  after  all  was  said,  he  had 
merely  floated  on  the  surface  of  the  deep  current  of 
her  love. 

Much  time,  since  this  letter,  as  measured  by  days 
and  longing,  had  passed  since  he  left  Arizona.  Much 
more  must  pass  before  he  could  return.  Outwardly 
he  had  been  caught  up  once  more  in  the  stream  of 
his  customary  existence.  He  worked  hard,  dined 
out,  went  occasionally  to  the  theatre,  and  was  always 
in  his  seat  at  the  Symphony  Concert  on  Saturday 
evening.  The  only  change  that  people  noticed  was 
that  he  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  with  Katherine 


366  THE   GREEN   VASE 

Bland.  But  in  his  outward  life  he  only  went  through 
the  motions,  so  to  speak.  Inwardly  he  lead  a  life 
of  his  own,  intense,  unrelated  to  the  world  about  him, 
feeding  emotionally  on  Helen's  letters.  They  were 
his  delight  and  his  wonder.  She  wrote  much  of 
the  boy,  of  his  learning  to  ride.  A  letter  had  come 
from  Harry  himself  when  the  pony  had  arrived  in 
Tucson,  a  letter  wonderfully  misspelled  and  sprawling 
over  two  large  sheets  on  which  Helen  had  ruled 
lines  that  seemed  to  serve  as  verbal  clothes-lines,  the 
words  clinging  to  them  somehow,  but  waving  in  all 
directions  as  though  a  gust  had  struck  the  page. 
There  was  also  a  picture  of  the  pony,  looking  like  a 
cork  stood  up  on  toothpicks.  Beneath  it  was  the 
legend,  "  This  is  Mister  Murphy,  my  hors,  who  runs 
faster  than  a  rattul  snak."  Now  they  had  gone 
west,  and  Harry  was  learning  to  swim  at  Monterey, 
while  his  mother  wandered  about  the  beautiful 
grounds  of  Del  Monte,  worshipped  discreetly  by  all 
the  men  and  outwardly  by  most  of  the  women.  This 
Henry  learned  from  other  sources,  and  it  almost  sent 
him  flying  to  California.  But  Helen's  letter  re- 
assured him.  She  was  evidently  quietly  happy,  and 
was  waiting.  Her  past  was  still  a  mystery,  though 
he  had  told  her  something  and  written  more.  She 
never  asked  him  to  tell  her  now.  She  was  content 


HENRY  367 

to  wait,  not  tremulously,  as  when  Stephen  was  alive, 
but  confidently. 

Just  before  the  summer  exodus  from  Boston,  when 
furniture  vans  appeared  in  daily  increasing  numbers 
on  Commonwealth  Avenue  and  Beacon  Street,  and 
wooden  shutters  made  one  house  after  another  blind 
to  the  world,  Katherine  Bland  sent  for  him  again. 
He  found  her  as  usual,  sitting  before  her  fire,  al- 
though it  was  warm  outdoors  and  all  her  windows 
were  open. 

"  Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said.  "  It  seems 
a  long  time  since  you  were  last  here." 

"  It  does.     You  have  been  well?  " 

"  Well  enough,"  she  answered,  lightning  a  cigar- 
ette. "  I  consider  it  vulgar  to  be  boundingly,  ex- 
plosively well,  like  the  buds  of  to-day.  But  I  ex- 
pect to  live  as  long  as  they  do."  She  smiled  faintly 
and  the  smile  seemed  to  him  to  accentuate  the  pallor 
of  her  cheeks.  He  noticed  the  tiny  wrinkles  at  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  and  thought  in  contrast  of  the 
untouched  freshness  of  Helen,  her  cheeks  warmed  by 
the  desert  sun. 

"Tell  me  about  her,"  she  fcdded.  "You  are 
thinking  of  her.  That  is  what  men  do,  in  stories, 
about  the  women  they  love — only  usually  they  are  not 
married.  You  are  a  story-book  man." 


368  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  I  am  ?  Surely  I  should  be  a  very  plain  and  un- 
romantic  hero." 

"  You  don't  know  heroic  qualities.  They  consist 
in  always  living  up  to  the  reader's  expectations." 

"  How  uninteresting." 

"  On  the  contrary,  how  thrilling,  in  real  life,  be- 
cause so  unexpected.  In  that  the  romantic  consists. 
You  were  thinking  of  her." 

"  Yes.     It's  a  habit  I  have." 

"  A  good  one,"  she  said  a  little  sadly,  "  a  good 
one — the  habit  of  thinking  about  the  right  people. 
It  makes  for  peace.  But  it  can't  be  very  exciting." 

"  Peace  is  better.  That's  what  makes  the  desert 
so  wonderful.  You're  just  swept  up  into  the  calm 
of  it.  You  become  a  part  of  it  and  forget  to  worry." 

"  I  shouldn't,"  she  said  sharply.  "  I  should  be  ten 
thousand  times  more  restless.  I  should  hate  it. 
Does  Helen  like  it?" 

"  Yes— loves  it." 

"  Because  she  has  no  past.  The  shadows  would 
follow  one  and  torture  one  who  had.  Is  she  there 
now?" 

"  No — in  California.  The  Arizona  summer  is  too 
hot." 

"  Have  you  a  plan?  " 

"  No.     Things  must  happen  as  they  will." 


HENRY  369 

'  You  must  marry  her." 

"  Mrs.  Jennings  suggested  that.  But  I  am  al- 
ready married." 

"  All  the  better.  It  can't  harm  you  to  go 
through  the  ceremony  again,  even  if  Mrs.  Jennings, 
whoever  she  is,  did  suggest  it." 

"  It  would  be  a  travesty." 

'  You  are  too  old  and  too  modern  to  talk  that 
way.  It  would  be  a  ceremony  to  her — to  you  an  ex- 
pedient. Is  hot  expedience  the  rule  of  modern  life?  " 

"  The  misfortune,  I  should  say,  not  the  rule." 

"  It's  a  mere  matter  of  wording,  like  everything 
else,"  she  said. 

"  But  afterward — if  I  do  it.  What  will  she  think 
of  me?" 

"  Let  the  future  care  for  itself.  Marry  her. 
Then  when  she  learns  the  truth,  when  something  has 
made  her  remember,  you  will  have  her  just  where 
you  want  her,  as  Moncrieff  would  quote  from  his  book 
of  American  slang." 

"  It  would  be  taking  an  unfair  advantage,  it 
seems." 

"Why?  You  won't  say  that  after  you  have 
thought  about  it.  And  unless  you  do  it — well,  you 
will  have  a  hard  time  to  carry  your  point." 

Henry  shook  his  head.     "  I  can't  see  it.     After 


370  THE   GREEN   VASE 

she  knows  me  well  again — is  used  to  me — and  then  I 
tell  her.  What  could  be  more  reasonable?  " 

"  Yes,  what,  for  a  man.  But  man's  reason  is 
woman's  folly.  She  doesn't  think  like  a  man.  If 
she  did  she  would  be  intolerable  and  you  would  never 
love  her.  No,  I'm  sure  of  this,  Henry.  If  you  tell 
her  first  and  then  ask  her  to  take  up  the  old  life 
again,  she  won't  do  it.  She  will  think  you  are  acting 
through  duty,  and  nothing  would  more  surely  repel 
a  woman  than  that.  Why  did  she  marry  you  origi- 
nally? You  were  very  crude." 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea — never  have  had." 

"  I  know.  It  was  because  you  were  strong.  You 
did  things.  In  spite  of  yourself  you  fascinated  her. 
And  then  you  carried  her  by  storm.  You  appealed 
to  her  imagination  You  were  a  knight  of  the  ro- 
mantic ages.  Like  him  you  acted  first  and  gave  your 
reasons  afterward.  Do  it  again.  It  is  your  only 
chance  of  happiness." 

"  A  good  deal  of  all  that  is  in  your  imagination. 
But  there's  just  enough  truth  to  make  me  think. 
You  can  look  at  it  from  her  point  of  view.  I  can't." 

"  Think  about  it.  You  business  men,  especially 
you  old,  conservative  Stuyvesant  and  Bond  people, 
are  never  willing  to  decide  anything  quickly. — 
Stephen,  for  example.  I  am  sure  that  if  you  had 


HENRY  371 

asked  him  whether  that  bright  ball  over  there  were  the 
rising  sun,  he  would  have  looked  at  his  watch  and 
compared  the  time  with  an  almanac  before  answering. 
And  even  then  he  might  not  have  been  willing  to 
commit  himself.  Where  did  you  live  when  you  were 
married?  " 

"  On  the  Park,  in  South  Boston." 

'  You  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it.  A  furniture- 
maker  I  know  lives  there,  and  I  always  tell  him 
that  his  chairs  are  better  because  they  come  from 
such  an  attractive  place.  Do  you  still  own  your 
house?  " 

"Yes.     It's  rented.     Why?" 

"  It  just  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  evict  the 
tenants  and  take  your  wife  there  next  spring." 

"  You  seem  to  be  sure  that  she  will  be  my  wife. 
But  why  take  her  back  to  a  place  she  hated." 

"She  did  hate  it?  So  much  the  better.  The 
memories  to  be  roused  would  be  all  the  stronger. 
Are  you  going  away  this  summer?  " 

"  No.  I've  had  my  vacation.  Boston  is  not  at 
all  bad  in  summer  if  you  don't  think  about  it.  I 
shall  get  out  of  town  for  Sunday  usually.  Shall  you 
be  near  here?  " 

"I?  Oh,  no.  I  am  going  West  next  week.  I 
usually  go  abroad,  but  it  occurred  to  me  that  there 


372  THE    GREEN   VASE 

might  be  something  worth  seeing  in  my  own  country. 
My  friends  all  say  it's  absurd,  and  that  has  deter- 
mined me.  What  my  friends  consider  absurd  would 
probably  be  very  amusing." 

"  You're  going  West.  You'll  see  Helen?  "  He 
said  it  eagerly. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  suppose  I  shall. 
People  inevitably  do  meet  in  the  West,  don't  they? 
The  distances  are  so  restricted.  But  it  might  be 
simpler  if  you  told  me  exactly  where  she  is  and  gave 
me  a  card.  That  is,  if  you  can  trust  me." 

'  Trust  you,  Katherine?  "  he  said  impulsively.  "  I 
feel  as  though  you  were  arranging  all  my  happiness 
for  me.  I  love  her  and  I'm  her  husband — and  I  feel 
as  helpless  as  a  child.  You  are  making  my  life  for 
me." 

"  I  shouldn't  advise  you  to  tell  Helen  that."  She 
got  up  and  went  to  her  desk.  Henry  sat  looking  into 
the  fire,  thinking.  Her  plans  all  seemed  so  reason- 
able— and  she  was  going  to  see  Helen.  It  would 
be  wonderful  for  both  of  them.  And  then  he  be- 
came conscious  that  the  minutes  were  passing  and 
that  the  room  was  very  still.  He  turned  in  his  chair, 
and  saw  her,  a  dim  white  figure  sitting  at  the  desk,  her 
head  bowed  on  her  arms. 

"  Oh  what  a  selfish  brute  I  am !  "  he  cried,  jump- 


HENRY  373 

ing  up.  "  I  come  here  and  talk  about  myself,  and 
never  think  of  you." 

She  shivered  a  little  and  then  raised  her  head. 
Standing  beside  her,  his  hand  on  her  arm,  he  saw  the 
struggle  in  her  face.  Then  she  laughed,  a  little 
sharply,  and  wiped  away  the  tears.  "  How  silly  I 
am,"  she  said  in  a  childish  voice.  "  Just  like  an  un- 
fledged girl  who  goes  to  the  theatre  and  cries  at  the 
happy  ending.  I  ought  to  laugh,  and  instead  I  cry. 
But  the  curtain  is  down  now,  finally,  and  I  am  going 
to  put  on  my  just  ordinary  clothes  and  smile  all  the 
rest  of  my  life.  Just  this  time — why,  do  you  know, 
Henry,  the  play  was  so  well  done  that  I  imagined 
myself  as  taking  part  in  it.  And  my  part  was  as  real 
as  the  others — and  just  as  happy — although  for  a 
moment  it  did  not  seem  so.  Now  sit  down  here 
and  write  me  a  note  to  Helen. — No,  don't  kiss  me. 
The  play  is  over,  remember,  and  in  real  life  a  wife  is 
not  pleased  when  her  husband  kisses  other  women. 
She  is  very  selfish  that  way.  Now  write,  please.  I 
am  going  to  get  some  whiskey  and  water  so  that  you 
won't  want  to  go  as  soon  as  you  have  finished." 

When  he  took  the  note  to  her  she  was  sitting  be- 
fore the  fire  again,  smoking  her  cigarette.  Once 
more  she  was  the  cool,  satirical  woman  whom  the 
world  of  Boston  knew,  and  liked,  and  was  a  little 


374  THE    GREEN   VASE 

afraid  of.  For  an  hour  she  kept  him  laughing  with 
her  gossip,  a  trifle  more  malicious  than  usual,  a  trifle 
more  worldly,  as  if  her  own  hidden  pain  sharpened 
her  tongue.  But  only  Henry  knew  that,  and  she  went 
far  toward  making  even  him  forget  it. 

"  I  shan't  see  you  again,"  she  said  with  a  return 
to  her  old  seriousness  when  he  got  up  to  leave.  "  You 
must  write  me  sometimes.  My  father's  agents  in  San 
Francisco  can  always  reach  me.  And  I  will  write 
of  Helen,  when  I  see  her.  In  the  meantime  think 
over  what  I  said — about  your  marriage,  and  about 
the  house.  Good-bye." 

"  I  know  your  advice  is  good,"  he  said.  '  Thank 
you  for  that— and  everything."  He  leaned  over  and 
kissed  her  hand.  And  as  he  did  it  he  thought  of  that 
other  night  when  he  had  kissed  Helen's  hand,  when 
the  gray  light  was  stealing  over  the  desert,  and  the 
keen,  pure  air  filled  his  lungs.  Here  the  air  was 
heavy,  he  noticed  for  the  first  time,  heavy  with  the 
perfume  of  gardenias. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

TIME  !  It  was  sleepy  with  the  centuries  it  had  seen, 
lazily  uncoiling  its  heavy  length,  until  it  seemed  to 
Henry  that  the  interminable  spirals  carried  him 
further  from  Helen,  instead  of  nearer.  And  yet  the 
date  at  the  head  of  the  papers  each  morning  showed 
that  the  year  was  passing.  The  flame  of  the  tulips 
in  the  Public  Garden  had  burned  itself  out;  the  cam- 
panulas and  Madonna  lilies  had  carried  the  summer 
insensibly  to  the  cool  blue  of  larkspurs  that  tempered 
the  iron  heat  of  August;  the  Garden  had  warmed  it- 
self in  September  with  glowing  gladioli  and  in  Oc- 
tober with  the  hotter  red  of  chrysanthemums  that 
persisted  until  quenched  by  the  first  snows  of  No- 
vember. And  then  the  Christmas  spirit  had  been 
in  the  air.  Holly  wreaths  had  decked  the  windows 
and  florists'  wagons  had  carried  gorgeous  loads  of 
poinsettias  and  brilliant  azaleas  that  mocked  winter 
with  pictures  of  another  spring. 

Henry  worked  as  he  had  never  worked  before.  It 
was  harder  to  push  back  the  beckoning  finger  of  his 
joy  than  it  had  been  to  forget  the  shadow  of  his 
sorrow.  There  was  little  to  do  but  work.  He 

375 


376  THE   GREEN   VASE 

could  not  sit  through  a  performance  at  the  theatre. 
Even  the  concert  on  Saturday  night  was  losing  its 
power.  Music,  that  had  seemed  to  him  to  express 
all  emotion,  now  seemed  to  touch  only  the  surface, 
to  weave  a  veil  that  did  not  hide,  but  rather  revealed, 
his  quivering  soul.  Helen's  letters  he  lived  for  day 
by  day,  and  they  were  filled  with  a  happiness,  a  joy, 
that  was  sometimes  almost  lyric  in  its  outbursts.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  found  a  friend,  a 
woman  with  eyes  which  saw  as  she  had  always  tried 
to  see;  a  woman,  to  be  sure,  somewhat  weary  of  life, 
like  Moncrieff  inclined  to  be  cynical,  but  still  clinging 
to  her  own  dreams,  and,  what  was  more  important, 
able  to  appreciate  Helen's,  and  to  enrich  them.  She 
had  met  Katherine  Bland  in  Monterey,  and  they  had 
been  together  ever  since. 

"  She  is  wonderful,"  Helen  wrote.  "  She  said 
she  would  hate  the  desert,  but  I  think  that  perhaps 
she  sees  it  through  my  eyes."  Henry  stopped  there 
for  a  moment.  Yes,  Katherine  was  one  who  would 
naturally  hate  the  desert.  But  she  was  also  wise 
enough  to  be  able  to  "  see  through  other  eyes " 
when  that  other  vision  was  finer  and  truer.  That 
had  been  his  weakness  years  ago.  He  had  clung 
obstinately  to  his  own  narrow  horizon,  never  once 
had  tried  to  look  through  Helen's  eyes.  That  had 


HENRY  377 

been  his  weakness.  That  shrinking  from  the  larger 
view  had  cost  him  dear.  Now,  thank  God,  the  win- 
dows were  open — but  it  had  taken  the  shock  of  death 
to  open  them. 

"  She  is  wonderful,"  the  letter  continued.  "  I 
say  it  to  myself  every  morning  when  I  come  down 
to  breakfast  with  Harry,  and  I  say  it  every  evening 
when  we  sit  on  the  veranda  in  the  starlight,  wrapped 
up  against  the  keen  desert  winds,  and  she  carries  me 
back  with  her  vivid  descriptions  of  all  the  gay,  good 
times  in  Boston — back,  I  said,  because  they  all  seem 
so  natural,  so  a  part  of  me,  that  I  must  have  known 
them,  somehow,  in  those  years  that  are  lost.  And 
forward,  too,  she  takes  me,  to  the  good  times  that 
are  coming — the  operas,  and  the  concerts,  and  the 
theatres,  and  the  dinners.  I  am  young  yet,  you 
know,  my  friend,  and  all  these  joys  are  ahead.  I  am 
the  mother  of  a  boy,  a  splendid,  beautiful  six-year-old 
boy,  and  yet  I  have  the  outlook  of  a  girl  just  going 
into  the  world.  Is  it  wrong,  do  you  think?  It 
makes  me  remember  something  that  Stephen  said  long 
ago.  "  Thank  God  for  your  innocence  and  your  sim- 
plicity of  heart ' — or  something  like  that.  '  It  is  the 
best  influence  your  child  can  have.'  But  sometimes  I 
wonder.  I  have  told  Katherine,  and  she  agrees.  I  think 
I  could  keep  that  innocence,  even  if  I  knew  every- 


378  THE   GREEN   VASE 

thing  and  it  proved  very  terrible — even  worse  than  I 
imagine — and  knowing,  perhaps,  I  should  be  a  better 
mother.  That  is  what  I  live  for — to  be  happy  for  his 
sake,  to  understand  for  his  sake,  to  give  him  all  that 
I  have  missed.  This  is  very  real  to  me,  dear  friend. 
You  won't  despise  me  for  talking  so  much  of  myself, 
will  you?  I  say  every  day  that  I  am  only  Harry's 
mother — and  to  be  that  is  to  be  very,  very  much." 

Such  letters  stirred  Henry  to  the  depths  of  his 
nature.  He  was  continually  amazed  at  the  new 
knowledge  they  brought  him,  the  sight  of  the  woman 
he  had  never  been  able  to  discover — the  real  woman 
who  underlay  the  wife  he  had  blindly  thought  to 
know  and  had  not  known  at  all.  He  began  to  realize 
something  of  what  she  had  suffered,  released  sud- 
denly, as  she  had  been,  from  the  necessity  of  work 
that  had  kept  her  from  thinking,  into  a  freedom 
where  she  expected  to  find  happiness,  but  where,  in- 
stead, she  was  hemmed  in  by  conditions  that  must 
have  been  infinitely  more  galling  than  were  the  mere 
limitations  of  work.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he 
understood. 

Katherine,  too,  wrote  occasionally,  and  her  letters 
told  him  sometimes  much  that  he  longed  to  know, 
"  Never,"  she  said,  "  had  I  supposed  that  the  world 
contained  a  woman  with  so  few  unspoiled  illusions. 


HENRY  379 

Yet  why  not,  in  her  case?  As  a  child  she  had  no 
time,  no  opportunity  to  learn  the  world.  And  what 
little  she  must  have  learned  is  gone,  like  all  the  rest. 
Here — well,  in  the  desert  one  does  not  find  out  the 
perfidy  of  man:  There  is  something  enormously 
cleansing  about  the  atmosphere — just  as  you  told  me. 
I  feel  so  clean,  morally,  that  I  hardly  dare  to  leave. 
You  see,  I  am  not  like  Helen.  She,  dear  child,  will 
go  through  the  world  unspotted  because  she  will  never 
see,  never — no,  not  even  when  she  knows — and  the 
only  way  to  keep  clean  is  not  to  see.  All  the  lying, 
and  the  intrigue,  and  the  gossip — all  of  it  stains,  if 
you  recognize  it.  I  do,  almost  before  it  occurs, 
and  it  makes  me  cynical,  like  Moncrieff.  She  never 
will.  And,  by  the  way,  I  almost  accepted  Moncrieff 
in  San  Francisco.  He  is  coming  here,  and  here  he 
will  have  no  chance  unless  the  desert  and  Helen  affect 
him  as  they  do  me.  She  is  not  a  woman.  She  is  a 
child  whom  I  am  educating — for  you/' 

The  letters  carried  him  far  from  the  bleak  east 
winds  of  Boston,  away  in  imagination  over  the  endless 
prairies  to  Arizona.  And  a  month  must  pass  before 
he  could  go.  He  had  enough  to  keep  him  busy.  On 
January  first  the  house  in  South  Boston  had  come  into 
his  hands  again,  and  he  went  there  almost  daily. 
Workmen  were  restoring  it  as  nearly  as  possible  to 


38o  THE   GREEN   VASE 

its  original  appearance.  The  black  walnut  was  newly 
varnished;  on  the  parlour  walls  was  new  paper  of 
the  same  gory  red,  with  the  same  purple  shadows; 
new  lace  curtains  were  at  the  windows,  the  same 
dead  white  of  years  ago. 

Henry  lighted  the  gas  one  evening  after  the  work- 
men had  gone  and  sat  down  to  look  around.  The 
sofa  was  as  unyielding  as  it  had  been.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  though  Helen  must  come  through  the 
door,  Helen  as  she  was  then,  pale  and  out  of  place, 
not  as  she  was  now,  browned  with  the  desert  sun, 
and  free,  with  the  look  of  great  spaces  in  her  eyes. 
He  took  out  his  watch,  as  though  to  see  how  long 
there  might  be  yet  to  wait,  got  up  and  placed  the 
hideous  green  vase  with  its  sprawling  roses  precisely 
in  the  middle  of  the  mantel.  For  a  moment  he 
thought  of  taking  it  away,  but  dared  not.  It  was  the 
keynote  of  the  room,  and  the  room  was  a  plot  to  en- 
trap Helen's  wandering  memory. 

The  door-bell  rang,  amazingly  shrill  in  the  op- 
pressive silence  of  the  house.  He  was  glad  of  the 
interruption.  He  went  into  the  hall  and  opened  the 
door  to  Mrs.  Jennings. 

"  Mrs.  Salsbury,  next-door,  saw  a  light  and  tele- 
phoned over.  She  has  a  telephone  now  on  account 
of  that  rich  boarder  that  took  one  flight  front.  Of 


HENRY  381 

course,  it's  a  party-line  and  don't  cost  much.  So  I 
came  over  to  see  if  things  was  all  right  and  thinking  I 
might  find  you  here  and  have  a  little  needful  talk. 
Are  the  workmen  still  here  ?  "  she  asked,  taking  off 
her  coat. 

"  No.  They  have  gone  home.  I  was  all  alone 
and  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Oh !  If  you're  alone  " — she  said,  taking  up  her 
coat  again.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  stay.  It 
mightn't  be  proper." 

"  Nonsense,  Mrs.  Jennings.  Surely  you  and  I 
have  reached  the  age  of  discretion." 

'  Just  a  minute  or  two  couldn't  be  any  harm,  I 
guess.  But  sakes  alive,  folks  do  say  such  things. 
Every  Sunday  it  certainly  seems  to  me  as  if  the  ears 
of  some  of  the  audience  must  burn  when  the  minister 
preaches  about  talebearing." 

"  That  was  what  Helen  found  so  hard  when  we 
lived  here." 

"  I  know — poor  innocent.  I  came  over  to  tell  you 
I  had  a  letter  from  Helen." 

"Did  you?     When?" 

"  Only  just  yesterday  it  came  and  I  must  remark, 
Henry  Murphy,  that  I  didn't  like  it." 

"Didn't  like  it?" 

"  Exactly   so."     Mrs.   Jennings   compressed   her 


382  THE    GREEN   VASE 

lips  and  sat  very  straight  in  her  chair,  her  whole 
attitude  radiating  self-conscious  and  condemnatory 
virtue.  "  I  answered  right  off,  as  was  my  duty." 

"  What  was  wrong?  " 

"  That  Bland  woman." 

"  Katherine  Bland?  But,  Mrs.  Jennings,  nothing 
could  be  happier  for  Helen  than  to  have  her  there." 

She  tossed  her  head  contemptuously.  "  I  tell  you 
it  ain't  proper,  and  the  poor  child  deserved  to  be 
warned.  She's  going  to  have  her  chance  this  time." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  of  what  she  must 
be  warned.  Certainly  she  could  not  be  with  a  more 
delightful  person  than  Katherine  Bland." 

"There  you  are!"  Mrs.  Jennings  ejaculated — 
"  just  what  I  was  afraid  of  all  the  time !  There  are 
snakes  and  snakes,  '  male  and  female  created  He 
them,'  as  the  Good  Book  says." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Jennings " 

"  Don't  interrupt,"  she  cried.  "  I  made  a  bad 
enough  mess  before  with  not  understanding  the  poor 
child.  This  time  I'm  going  to  prevent  a  mess  if  I 
can.  Helen's  as  innocent  as  a  child,  and  as  unselfish 
as  a  lamb.  Do  you  suppose  that  woman,  who's 
nothing  but  a  high-society  butterfly,  is  good  for  her, 
filling  her  head  with  nonsense  and  selfishness  and 
stories  of  card-playing  and  drinking  champagne?" 


HENRY  383 

"  Is  that  what  you  warned  her  about  ?  "  he  asked 
sarcastically. 

"  No,  it  isn't.  I  told  her  about  how  you  and  Miss 
Bland  was  always  together  last  year,  about  how  folks 
all  thought  you  were  going  to  marry,  and  that,  since 
you  were  rich,  she  probably  still  wanted  you.  I  just 
warned  her  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  her  own  rights." 

"Mrs.  Jennings!" 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  asserted  firmly.  "  And  glad  I 
was  of  the  chance  to  do  her  a  good  turn  after  all 
the  bad  feeling  I'd  had  for  her  before." 

"  Does  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Mrs.  Jennings,"  he 
said  quietly,  walking  about  the  room,  "  that  you  know 
as  little  of  Miss  Bland,  even  less,  than  you  formerly 
knew  of  Helen,  that  you  may  misjudge  her  as  seri- 
ously, and  also  bring  sorrow  into  Helen's  life  again 
by  destroying  the  first  real  friendship  she  has  ever 
had — and  for  no  reason  whatever?  " 

Mrs.  Jennings  tossed  her  head  scornfully.  "  I 
guess  I  know  more  about  women  than  you  do,  Henry 
Murphy.  Talk  about  friendship!  Do  you  think 
a  swell  like  Miss  Bland  is  going  to  come  over  here 
to  South  Boston  to  visit  your  wife?  " 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  she  should.  I  have  no 
intention  of  living  here." 

"Then  why  are  you  fixing  up  the  house  again? 


384  THE    GREEN   VASE 

And  I  must  say  it's  old-fashioned,  too.  Nobody  has 
lace  curtains  now.  And  if  you're  going  to  bring  her 
here  -just  at  first,  why  spend  the  money?  You've  got 
sweet  things,  like  that  lovely  green  vase  your  Uncle 
John  sent  you,  and  those  would  keep  her  happy  a  few 
days." 

Henry  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  vase.  Its  ugli- 
ness was  amazing  and  yet,  because  Mrs.  Jennings 
liked  it,  he  realized  that  it  was  somehow  typical  of  the 
people  whom  he  had  wanted  Helen  to  have  as  friends. 
He  himself,  six  years  ago,  had  not  known  how  bad  it 
was,  nor  how  offensive  they  were,  with  all  their  good- 
ness of  heart.  "  I  want  it  to  look  as  familiar  as 
possible,"  he  said,  realising  that  he  must  say  some- 
thing. 

"  I  guess  she'd  just  as  soon  have  you  save  the 
money  for  something  else,"  Mrs.  Jennings  said  heav- 
ily, and  went  toward  the  door.  "  I  must  say,  Henry 
Murphy,  that  I  do  hope  things  will  come  out  all  right 
— and  I'm  glad  I  wrote  Helen — and  I'm  glad  I  told 
you  so  you'd  know  I  wasn't  doing  anything  behind 
your  back  and  was  really  your  friend." 

Henry  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  merely 
bowed  as  he  opened  the  door. 

After  she  had  gone  he  found  himself  trembling. 
He  went  to  the  dining-room  and,  unlocking  the  side- 


HENRY  385 

board,  took  out  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  poured  him- 
self a  stiff  drink.  "  I  needed  just  this  lesson,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  To  think  that  this  is  the  kind  of 
thing  Helen  endured  while  I  sat  by  and  told  her  to  be 
friendly.  God!  And  I  didn't  even  defend  her! 
When  Bond  sent  those  orchids  I  sat  bade — and  ex- 
plained to  the  woman.  To-night  I  could  not  explain. 
Like  her — I  have  grown  more  like  her  and  am  a  little 
more  worthy."  Again  the  door-bell  jangled  in  the 
silence  of  the  house.  "Why  can't  people  let  me 
alone?" 

"  My,  but  it's  good  to  see  you,  Henry.  I  don't 
often  get  to  town,  there  being  enough  to  keep  me 
jumping  here.  But  you're  looking  glum.  What's 
up?" 

"  Nothing,  Mr.  Jennings.  Your  wife  has  just 
gone." 

"Has  she  been  here?  Jumping  Jupiter — then  I 
reckon  I  know  what's  wrong." 

"  She  wrote  Helen — I  don't  know  what  exactly.  I 
am  sorry — but  probably  no  harm  is  done." 

"  I'm  sorrier  than  you.  Amanda  hasn't  anything 
to  do — except  look  after  die  rest  of  the  world.  I 
let  her  get  another  maid  the  other  day.  What  in 
tarnation  she  wants  three  for  I  don't  know.  But 
it  did  some  good,  because  she  has  to  spend  hours  a 


386  THE   GREEN   VASE 

day  hunting  for  something  for  No.  3  to  do.  But 
it  don't  go  far  enough,  what?" 

"  It  really  does  not  matter,"  Henry  said  again. 
"  She  was  so  good  to  me  after  the  accident  that  she 
has  a  right  to  say  what  she  pleases.  It  was  only  my 
wish  for  Helen — that  nothing  should  happen  to 
trouble  her." 

"  Right  you  are,  young  man.  Amanda's  a  good 
woman,  but  she  has  a  tongue  that  runs  away  with 
her.  She  never  does  things  underhanded,  though. 
She  always  tells,  but,  sometimes,  after  the  mischief  is 
done."  He  shook  his  head  and  Henry  s<aw  that  he 
looked  old  and  tired.  "  It's  no  shucks  trying  to  man- 
age a  woman.  Don't  let  your  wife  get  the  top  hand 
at  the  beginning.  That  just  about  doubles  the  work 
later  on.  Helen's  a  good  woman — so  was  Amanda, 
and  is  now,  bless  her.  But  your  wife's  a  woman,  like 
mine,  and  just  for  that  she'll  try  to  run  you.  And 
it  don't  pay  to  let  her,  my  boy.  It  don't  pay  in  the 
end.  Women  need  training,  and  a  master,  like  dogs. 
If  we'd  had  children — well,  it  might  'a  been  different 
then.  I  don't  know.  Something  to  do — it  don't 
matter  much  what.  They  all  need  it."  He  blew  his 
nose  violently  and  then  held  out  his  hand.  "  You'll 
shake?  Thank  you.  Good-night,  my  boy." 

Henry   turned  wearily  to   the   parlour.     Was   it 


HENRY  387 

worth  the  game — all  this  plotting,  all  this  misunder- 
standing? Yes,  he  was  sure  of  that.  If  anything 
could  bring  back  her  memory  no  effort  was  too 
great.  And  if  not,  little  harm  would  be  done.  Then 
he  must  tell  her,  and  the  hideous  story  would  be  easier 
to  tell  in  the  familiar,  hideous  surroundings.  But 
the  physical  ugliness  of  it  all  sank  out  of  sight  in 
comparison  with  the  mental  and  moral  sordidness. 
That  he  had  never  known  until  to-night,  and  even  sin 
seemed  less  horrible  than  this  suburban  virtue  that 
so  stridently  triumphed  over  taste  and  sense.  He 
realised  at  last  the  full  depth  of  what  Helen  had  en- 
dured, and  his  heart  cried  out  over  her  suffering.  He 
could  not  protect  her  from  the  world — no  man  can 
do  that  for  the  woman  he  loves — but  he  could  shield 
her.  He  knew  where  danger  lay.  '  The  tongue 
is  a  fire."  The  Bible  never  spoke  a  truer  word  than 
that. 

And  then  he  remembered  the  letter  that  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings had  sent.  Of  what  was  in  it  he  had  no  idea, 
but  that  it  would  trouble  her  he  felt  almost  certain. 
It  was  a  little  cloud  thrusting  its  intimation  of  storm 
over  the  serene  horizon  of  his  happiness.  And  yet  it 
could  not  be  explained  by  another  letter.  He  walked 
slowly  back  and  forth,  stopped  under  the  light  and 
again  took  out  his  watch.  "  I'll  do  it,"  he  muttered. 


388  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  I'll  telegraph  to-night  and  leave  to-morrow.  She 
shall  not  worry  longer  than  I  can  help."  Then  he 
turned  out  the  lights.  "  Helen,"  he  whispered  into 
the  darkness,  "  a  few  days  longer,  my  dearest,  and 
the  weary  waiting  will  be  over.  I'm  coming,  dear, 
coming  at  last." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

"  DON'T  look  so  distressed,  dear  man,"  Katherine 
cried,  laughing,  as  Henry  ran  to  the  carriage  back  of 
the  station  in  Tucson.  "  Helen  is  all  right.  You 
should  show  that  you  are  glad  to  see  me."  She 
laughed  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Get  in  now.  The 
horses  are  fast.  Pedro  will  see  to  the  luggage." 

Henry  climbed  to  the  seat  beside  her  and  the 
horses  started.  "The  boy — is  he  well?" 

"  Rather.  He  doesn't  know  how  to  be  sick.  We 
shall  meet  him  somewhere  beyond  the  town.  He  is 
not  allowed  to  ride  actually  into  the  town  for  fear 
that  Mr.  Murphy — the  pony,  you  know — might  mis- 
behave. Tell  me  why  you  came  so  suddenly.  I 
was  not  expecting  you  for  a  month." 

"  I  just  couldn't  wait." 

Katherine  laughed  again.  "  You  really  have  been 
a  saint,  Henry.  I  expected  you  long  ago." 

"  I  was  under  orders,  you  know.  You  gave  me 
permission  to  come  late  in  February.  This  is  the 
last  day  in  January." 

"  It  would  be  an  excellent  thing  if  all  lovers  be- 
haved as  well." 

389 


390  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  I'm  really  a  husband,  you  know." 

"  And  therefore  not  so  eager. — But  no.     We  don't 

say    sarcastic    things    out    here.     This    air    is    too 
clean." 

"  It  is,"  he  assented,  breathing  deeply.  "  The  air, 
and  the  space,  and  the  splendid  freedom  of  it  all 
make  life  a  finer  thing  than  we  poor  city  mortals 
ever  realise.  I'm  thankful  you  had  a  chance  to  learn 
it." 

"  I  needed  it,  you  think.  But  that  is  foolish.  I 
know  I  did — needed  the  tonic  of  it  all.  Not  for  al- 
ways, though.  I  grow  here  only  in  order  to  use 
that  growth  in  Boston.  It's  curious — loving  the 
desert  as  I  do  makes  me  love  the  city  more.  To 
Helen,  Boston  will  be  heaven." 

"You  think  so?" 

"  I  know  it.  She  had  never  been  really  happy. 
She  will  be  now." 

'  Why  didn't  she  come  to  the  station?  "  he  asked 
irrelevantly. 

Katherine  laughed.  "  You  held  back  that  ques- 
tion a  long  time.  And,  to  be  honest,  I  am  not  per- 
fectly sure.  She  planned  to  come,  but  her  courage 
failed.  At  least,  it  was  partly  that.  She  had  a  let- 
ter yesterday  that  worried  her.  I  don't  know  what 
it  was." 


HENRY  391 

"  I  do.  It  hurried  me  out  here.  It  was  just  a 
meddling  letter  from  a  meddling  woman — told 
nothing,  I  imagine,  but  would  have  troubled  her.  I 
didn't  want  that." 

'  You  are  not  very  specific." 

"  Such  stuff  does  not  deserve  it." 

"  Certainly  not,  unless  I  can  help.  Look !  Here 
comes  the  boy.  He's  on  the  desert,  where  he  has 
no  business  to  be." 

In  a  cloud  of  dust  the  pony  galloped  toward  them 
at  full  speed.  The  little  boy  waved  his  whip  and 
shouted  as  he  approached.  "  Hello,  Mr.  Pony-man. 
Stop,  Mr.  Murphy.  Whoa !  "  He  tugged  at  the 
reins  with  both  hands,  and  the  horse  came  to  a 
standstill  beside  the  carriage. 

Henry  was  already  on  the  ground  and  caught 
the  boy  from  the  saddle.  "  Hello,  you  blessed  lit- 
tle rascal,"  he  cried,  holding  him  high  in  the  air. 
"My!  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  pony,"  the  child  said  breath- 
lessly. "  Now  put  me  in  the  saddle,  please.  My 
mother  says  I'm  not  fit  to  touch  when  I'm  riding.  I 
get  so  dusty." 

"  You  won't  sit  in  my  lap  and  let  us  lead  the 
horse." 

11  Please,  I  don't  want  to,"  he  answered,  his  lips 


392  THE    GREEN   VASE 

quivering  as  he  settled  himself  into  place  and  thrust 
his  feet  into  the  stirrups.  "  Mr.  Murphy  likes  bet- 
ter to  gallop,  and  I  want  to  ride  fast  to  my  mother 
and  tell  her  you're  corning.  Can  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     But  are  you  glad  to  see  me?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  let  me  ride.  Did  you  bring  me  a 
present?  " 

"Oh,  Harry!  You  must  not  ask  that,"  Kather- 
ine  said. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would  hear,  Auntie  Kate. 
Don't  tell  mother.  Good-by,  Mr.  Pony-man.  I 
can't  say  Mr.  Murphy,  you  see,  'cause  that's  the 
pony's  name." 

"  Isn't  he  a  wonder?  "  Henry  said,  as  he  took  his 
seat  beside  Katherine  "  See  how  well  he  rides— 
and  not  yet  seven  years  old,  the  rascal.  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  him  when  he  was  little."  He 
watched  the  dust  cloud  that  marked  the  boy  until  it 
vanished  around  the  turn  of  the  road. 

The  horses  traveled  fast,  and  the  long,  low  houses 
soon  came  into  view.  "  You  are  pale,  my  friend," 
Katherine  said,  looking  at  him.  "  There  is  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of.  I  have  helped  your  cause — when 
it  needed  help." 

Henry  put  his  hand  for  a  moment  over  hers,  but 
she  drew  away.  "  No  flirting,"  she  said,  with  a 


HENRY  393 

twisted  smile.  "  I  don't  allow  that  with  other  peo- 
ple's husbands — not  here,  at  least." 

Then  they  saw  Helen  on  the  steps.  She  waved 
as  they  came  between  the  palm  trees.  She  was 
dressed  in  white,  and  the  sunlight  on  her  hair  made 
her  look  like  a  queen,  crowned  with  a  golden  crown. 
Henry  could  not  speak.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
moment  was  the  culmination  of  years  of  blind  seek- 
ing for  a  happiness  that  was  found  at  last. 
He  leaped  from  the  carriage  and  took  her  hand, 
silently.  He  saw  that  the  tears  were  very  near  her 
eyes. 

"  I'll  leave  you  people,"  he  heard  Katherine  say. 
"  I  promised  Harry  to  take  him  to  see  the  Indian 
children.  Good-by."  Still  he  did  not  turn  as  the 
carriage  drove  away.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  Helen's  face. 

And  then,  when  they  were  alone,  he  took  her  into 
his  arms  and  kissed  her,  on  the  forehead,  the  cheeks, 
the  mouth.  She  leaned  against  him,  and  slowly  her 
arms  went  up  until  they  were  clinging  about  his  neck. 
Neither  spoke.  At  last  he  led  her  to  the  hammock 
and  they  sat  down,  his  arm  holding  her  close,  she 
nestling  against  him. 

"  So  it  was  not  true,"  she  whispered. 

"  Nothing  is  true,  my  darling,"  he  answered,  "  but 


394  THE    GREEN   VASE 

this — this  only — that  I  love  you  more  than  all  the 
world." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  each  saw  the  other's 
soul  shine  out.  There  was  no  need  for  speech. 
They  listened  to  the  wind  in  the  palm  branches,  and 
to  the  birds  that  sang  of  love.  They  looked  out 
over  the  wide,  sunlighted  spaces,  and  it  seemed  to 
them  as  though  the  desert  smiled. 

"  And  yet  I  know  she  loves  you,"  Helen  said. 

"And  Stephen  loved  you"  he  added.  "But  only 
this  is  right." 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  only  this.  For  love  is 
not  complete  until  it  meets  a  full  response." 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

"  ARE  you  really  my  father  now  "  ?  Harry  asked  a 
month  later.  "Can  I  call  you  father?" 

"  Of  course,  my  son.  And  we're  going  to  have 
wonderful  times  together  back  in  Boston." 

"  Can  I  have  Mr.  Murphy  there?  " 

"  Surely.  But  we  might  give  him  another  name, 
perhaps.  How  would  Arizona  do?  He  comes 
from  here,  you  see." 

The  little  boy  drew  away,  and  stood  first  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other,  looking  a  little  dubiously  at 
Henry. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  really  my  father." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  because  I  said  I  can  two  times, 
and  you  didn't  tell  me  not  to.  Fathers  always 
do." 

Henry  laughed  aloud  and  caught  the  child  up 
into  his  lap.  '  That's  because  I'm  not  very  much 
used  to  being  a  father  yet,  you  see.  I  haven't  had 
you  for  a  son  very  long,  and  so  I  haven't  learned 
just  what  to  do." 

"  I  didn't  know  people  had  to  learn  how  to  be 

395 


396  THE   GREEN  .VASE 

fathers.     My  mother  didn't  have  to  learn  to  be  a 
mother.     Did  I  have  to  learn  to  be  a  boy?  " 

"  You  had  to  learn  to  be  a  brave  boy  who  could 
ride  a  horse." 

"  I  haven't  a  horse.  I  have  a  pony,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  Can  I  have  a  horse  when  I'm  big?  " 

'  You  may,  not  can,  my  son."  Harry  smiled  up 
at  him  mischievously.  "  See,  here  come  Miss  Bland 
and  Mr.  Moncrieff.  You  run  in  to  Miss  Gordon 
now." 

"Alone,  Henry?"  Moncrieff  said.  "Where's 
Mrs.  Murphy?  Thank  the  Lord  there's  something 
I  can  decently  call  her  at  last." 

"  She  never  notices  what  you  call  her,  Philip," 
Katherine  remarked. 

"  I  know  she  doesn't,"  he  said  with  simulated  ir- 
ritation. "  And  no  more  do  you — when  Murphy's 
around.  I  am  beginning  to  think  you're  in  love  with 
him  yourself." 

"Beginning  to  think?"  she  cried.  "I  thought 
you  prided  yourself  on  your  powers  of  observation. 
I've  been  desperately  in  love  with  him  for  years." 

"  Then,  my  dear  Henry,  I  challenge  you  to  a  duel. 
This  accounts  for  her  having  refused  me  again  to- 
day." 

"She  did,  did  she?"  Henry  said,  laughing.     He 


HENRY  397 

was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  subject  of  himself,  be- 
cause Moncrieff,  like  all  careless  speakers,  was  touch- 
ing on  more  dangerous  ground  than  he  dreamed. 
"  I'm  glad  of  it.  She  always  will  refuse  you  in  the 
desert,  Phil.  It's  altogether  too  close  to  the  real 
thing  to  bring  out  the  good  points  of  such  city 
products  as  yourself." 

"  That's  the  danger,"  Katherine  put  in.  "  I'm 
always  afraid  he  may  strike  me  quite  differently 
when  I  meet  him  next  winter  at  the  Elliots'  at  din- 
ner." 

"  So  your  refusal  is  not  final?  " 

"  Oh,  quite — for  the  time  being.  I  know  you 
will  ask  me  again,  unless  you  happen  to  marry 
someone,  somewhere.  Besides,  I  always  find  you 
amusing,  and  don't  want  to  cut  myself  off  from  see- 
ing you." 

"  But  here  and  now  I'm  down  and  out.  All  this 
trip  for  nothing." 

"  I  thought  you  came  on  Helen's  account,  and 
mine,"  Henry  remarked. 

"  What,"  Moncrieff  cried,  "  to  be  an  imitation 
witness  at  an  imitation  wedding!  It  was  a  more  in- 
teresting experience  than  weddings  usually  are,  I  ad- 
mit, but  the  whole  situation  makes  me  nervous." 

Katherine  laughed  at  him.     "  Go  and  pack  your 


398  THE   GREEN   VASE 

bags,  poor  nervous  invalid,"  she  said.     "  I  want  to 
talk  with  Henry.     He  leaves  to-night,  you  know." 

"  Make  her  unhappy  over  what  might  have  been," 
he  said  to  Henry  as  he  went  toward  the  door. 
"  Then  she  may,  in  self-defence,  attempt  what  might 
be." 

1  You  are  wonderfully  good,  Katherine."  Henry 
walked  across  the  veranda  and  stood  beside  her 
chair.  "  And  now  to  take  the  boy  East  with  you. 
There  hasn't  been  a  thing  that  you  did  not  think  of." 

"  Nonsense.  It  has  all  been  fun — for  me."  Her 
voice  broke,  but  she  pretended  she  was  coughing, 
and  Henry  did  not  appear  to  notice.  "  But  there  is 
one  thing,"  she  went  on  a  little  hysterically—  "  one 
mean  thing  I've  wished  all  day,  even  in  the  Church 
this  morning,  and  that  is,  that  Harry  were  not  your 
son,  but  Steve's.  Then  you  might  let  me  have 
him." 

"Katherine!" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  was  brutal — on  your  wedding 
day — but  I  have  learned  to  love  the  boy — and  he 
gives  me  something  to  do.  That  is  what  I  need, 
Henry,  just  as  you  have  always  said.  And  then,  you 
know,  I  am  really  not  responsible  for  what  I  say 
to-day — losing  Helen,  and  turning  my  face  toward 
the  city,  with  all  the  gossip  and  the  petty  jealousies, 


HENRY  399 

and  the  dead  dreams  that  make  up  my  life.  Will 
you  forgive  me?  " 

"  I  should  forgive  anything." 

"  Look,"  she  continued,  pointing  to  the  desert. 
'  That  is  real,  and  the  people  here  are  real.  The 
doctor  with  '  Old  Faithful '  and  his  stories  and  his 
great  big  heart,  is  real.  Father  Ignatius,  simple, 
loving,  never  thinking  of  himself,  has  made  me  un- 
derstand what  a  true  man  may  be.  And  one  other 
thing  I  want  to  say,  my  friend.  Stephen  was  real. 
He  could  not  have  lived  here,  and  yet  have  been 
quite  untrue  to  himself.  I  loved  him,  Henry,  more 
than  I  ever  loved  you,  I  think.  He  was  my  hero, 
ever  since  I  remember  anything.  And  in  these 
months  here  I  have  thought  of  him,  dreamed  of  him 
—the  kind  of  true  dreams  that  the  desert  gives.  He 
was  carried  away  by  a  love  he  did  not  know  how  to 
cope  with.  He  thought  himself  noble  in  what  he 
did — at  first.  And  then,  month  by  month  and  year 
by  year,  the  desert — this  great,  wonderful,  true 
desert,  entered  into  him  and  made  him,  once  more, 
true,  as  he  had  been,  but  finer,  because  he  had  found 
himself."  She  spoke  passionately,  and,  as  she  spoke, 
rose  from  her  chair  and  put  both  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders. "  I  tell  you  this,  Henry,  because  I  do  not 
want  Helen  to  think  too  hardly  of  him.  She  never 


400  THE   GREEN   VASE 

loved  him,  but  she  ought  to  pity  more  than  blame  him. 
She  can  never  fully  understand,  as  I  can,  because  the 
months  here  have  given  me  back  the  hero  of  my 
childish  dreams,  and,  with  him,  the  dreams  them- 
selves. I  shall  be  hard  and  cynical  again — I  know 
that — but  it  will  all  be  superficial.  Underneath,  in 
my  soul,  the  power  to  dream  has  been  made  im- 
mortal." 

He  leaned  toward  her  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
He  could  say  nothing — felt  there  was  nothing  to  say 
— but  smiled,  and  she  knew  that  he  understood. 

"  Go  in  now,"  she  said.  "  I  have  said  my  say, 
and  you  have  seen  deep,  deep  into  me  for  the  last 
time.  In  the  future  you  must  try  to  understand 
Helen — and  don't  forget  this — you  are  always,  ap- 
parently, on  the  verge— that  she  is  a  woman,  not  an 
angel,  and  that  women  need  the  lash  sometimes.  I 
have  no  sympathy  for  other  men's  wives,  and  if  ever 
I  find  a  man  I  am  deluded  enough  to  marry,  I  shall 
know  how  to  look  out  for  myself.  So  it's  not  trea- 
son to  my  sex,  you  see." 

Henry  left  her  standing  in  the  sunlight.  For  a 
moment  he  had  almost  forgotten  his  wife.  But  not 
quite.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  forget  himself. 

Helen  met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  I 
have  been  saying  good-by  to  Harry,"  she  said,  a 


HENRY  401 

little   tremulously.     "  I   don't  think   I   could   leave 
him  unless  I  were  going  with  you." 

'  We  shall  never  have  to  be  separated  from  him 
again,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  a  mo- 
ment of  his  young  life  any  more  than  you  do,  dear. 
But  now  we  have  so  much  to  talk  over.  We  shall 
both  know  it  was  best  when  we  have  him  again." 
'  You  are  so  good  to  me,  Henry." 

Nearly  the  whole  town  of  Tucson  was  at  the  sta- 
tion to  bid  them  God-speed.  Pedro  sobbed  aloud 
when  he  kissed  Helen's  hand.  "  Come  back  to  us," 
he  blubbered,  "  we  shall  never  have  such  another 
mistress — and  the  little  master,  who  has  learned  so 
well  to  speak  our  language,  he,  too,  must  come 
back  to  us."  Father  Ignatius  blessed  her.  "  Your 
husband  is  a  noble  man,"  he  said.  "  Love  him  al- 
ways, and  obey  him  when  you  do  not  fully  compre- 
hend. My  children's  prayers,  the  love  of  the  sim- 
ple Indians,  will  be  always  with  you."  The  doctor 
wiped  his  eyes  vigorously.  "  Old  Faithful  will  al- 
ways take  the  turn  to  the  hill,  Mrs.  Murphy.  And 
sometime  he  will  turn  because  you  are  there.  The 
houses  will  hem  you  in  and  soon  you  will  return, 
because  the  desert  always  calls  its  friends." 

"  I  shall  see  you  very  soon,  dear,  and  bring  the 
boy  safely,"  Katherine  said,  as  she  kissed  her. 


402  THE   GREEN   VASE 

"  And  when  you  think  there's  hope  for  me,"  Mon- 
crieff  cried  as  the  train  started,  "  cable  me  in  China." 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  as  the  train  sped  along 
the  straight  track.  They  saw  the  low,  white  house 
where  Helen  had  lived  so  long,  touched  with  the  pink 
of  sunset;  saw  the  Mission  fade  into  the  darkness 
as  the  shadows  welled  up  from  the  valleys;  watched 
until  the  desert  was  wrapped  in  night,  and  the  stars, 
the  lamps  of  heaven,  were  kindled  one  by  one.  Then 
Helen  leaned  to  him  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. "  I  have  never  known  any  other  home  than 
the  desert,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  and  yet,  with  you, 
I  feel  that  in  leaving  it  I  am  truly  going  home." 

They  reached  Boston  in  the  evening,  a  cold,  blus- 
tering March  night  that  made  Henry  think  of  the 
ending  of  that  other  wedding  journey,  eight  years 
before.  Again  she  did  not  know  where  they  were 
going,  but  this  time  she  had  no  feeling  of  distrust 
as  to  his  judgment.  She  loved  him,  as  she  had  loved 
him  before,  but  now  with  no  reservations,  expressed 
or  subconscious. 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  straight  home,"  Henry  said, 
"  but,  as  you  know,  the  house  is  not  ready,  and  so  I 
shall  take  you  to  a  house  I  have  in  South  Boston. 
I  have  not  lived  there  for  years,  you  remember,  but 
I  have  never  sold  the  house." 


HENRY  403 

"  It  does  not  matter  where  we  go,  dear,"  she  an- 
swered, "  so  long  as  I  can  be  with  you." 

Henry  was  silent  during  the  drive,  oppressed  with 
the  feeling  that  he  was  plotting  against  her,  not 
treating  her  fairly;  fearful  of  the  effect  that  re- 
turning memory  might  have  on  her,  and  equally 
dreading  the  ordeal  of  telling  her  the  past,  should 
she  not  remember.  He  realized  that  she  must 
know  that  here  in  Boston,  where  she  must  adjust 
herself  to  new  conditions,  anything  less  than  full 
knowledge  would  be  fatal  to  her  happiness.  Her 
happiness !  It  seemed  to  him,  now,  so  based  on  the 
lie  of  seven  years  that  he  wondered  whether  she 
could  ever  reconquer  it  when  that  lie  was  shat- 
tered. His  fears  seemed  to  him  to  charge  the 
very  atmosphere.  He  knew  that  they  affected 
her,  that  she  trembled,  not  knowing  why  she  was 
afraid. 

As  the  carriage  climbed  the  short  hill  to  the  Park 
she  put  her  hand  in  his.  "  Henry,"  she  said,  "  now 
that  we  are  at  home,  may  I  not  know?  It  is  very 
terrible,  I  think — all  that  I  have  forgotten.  But 
with  you,  dear,  I  can  bear  it,  and  until  I  know 
there  will  always  be  a  tiny,  tiny  cloud  throwing  its 
little  shadow  across  my  happiness." 

He  pressed  her  hand  close  in  his.     "  And  if  you 


404  THE   GREEN   VASE 

knew,  and  it  was  terrible,  could  you  still  be 
happy?  " 

"  I  could  not  be  unhappy — with  you." 

"  You  shall  learn  everything,  to-night,"  he  said. 
"  Here  we  are." 

They  climbed  the  steep  steps  together,  and  he 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then  he  took  her  hand 
and  led  her,  in  the  darkness,  to  the  parlour.  He 
left  her  standing  while  he  went  to  the  chandelier, 
and,  as  quickly  as  his  trembling  fingers  would  allow, 
lighted  all  the  gas.  He  threw  the  burned  match  into 
the  fireplace,  and  then,  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece  to 
support  himself,  turned  to  look  at  her. 

She  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  from 
side  to  side.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  terrified.  He 
watched  her  as,  mechanically,  she  put  up  her  hands 
and  unpinned  her  hat.  She  let  it  fall  to  the  floor. 
Neither  spoke.  As  she  looked  at  him  he  moved, 
nervously,  and  his  arm  touched  the  green  vase. 

"  Be  careful !  "  she  cried  sharply. 

The  sudden  breaking  of  the  silence  startled  him, 
and  he  moved  again,  convulsively.  The  vase 
toppled,  and,  before  he  could  catch  it,  crashed  to 
the  floor. 

Helen  screamed.  "Henry!  What  have  you 
done?  What  will  Uncle  John  say?"  She  sank 


HENRY  405 

to  her  knees  and  began  wildly  to  pick  up  the  pieces, 
green  glaze,  and  bits  of  roses,  red  and  yellow. 

He  watched  her,  still  leaning  against  the  mantel. 
Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
He  watched  her,  as  gradually  her  hands  moved  more 
slowly,  until  they  stopped.  Her  head  bowed,  and 
she  knelt  there,  hardly  breathing,  it  seemed  to  him. 

Then  he  went  to  her,  and  knelt  beside  her,  and 
put  his  arms  around  her.  "  Uncle  John  died  a  year 
ago,"  he  whispered. 

She  shivered,  and  pressed  close  against  him. 
"  Once,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  lived  here.  Since  then 
I  have  had  a  dream  of  the  great  desert.  And  I  was 
afraid  because  you  were  not  there  to  protect  me. 
Stephen  was  there,  and  I  was  afraid." 

He  drew  her  more  closely  to  him.  "  Was  it  a 
true  dream,  Henry  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  now  it  is  only  a  dream — a 
dream  that  we  shall  forget  together." 

She  sighed,  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  and  he  heard 
her  say — "  Poor  Stephen." 

She  was  quiet  a  moment.  But,  suddenly,  she 
drew  away  and  cried  in  agony  of  fear,  "  And  Harry 
—my  little  boy  ?  " 

"  We  have  found  him  together,  dear.  Harry  is 
my  son  as  well  as  yours." 


4o6  THE    GREEN   VASE 

Then,  finally,  she  turned  to  him,  and  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 
And  he  knew,  at  last,  that  in  this  truth  she  had 
found  a  joy  that  transcended  all  sorrow,  all  regret, 
all  pain. 


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